


I'll Owe You The Moon

by alchemicals



Series: Through Our Galaxy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Betrayal, Camp Nanowrimo, Draco Malfoy Speaks French, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, First Time, Harry's arm is jacked up with spell damage, Hermione's a genius, Light Dom/sub, Literally the longest thing i've ever written, M/M, Mystery, Not Beta Read, POC Harry Potter, Physical Disability, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Slow Burn, Some Plot, Sub Harry Potter, They'll die tbh if they dont leave the time loop, Time Loop, Time Travel, Top Draco Malfoy, fucking read my damn fic pls, or ever will write, pakistani harry potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-04-17 09:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14185875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemicals/pseuds/alchemicals
Summary: "We've been through these 3 days 5 times and you're only now accepting that maybe, perhaps, this might be a fucking time loop, Potter?!"*A CampNaNoWriMo Fic*-Harry can't be blamed for everything - it was his fucking arm that got him into the mess that his life currently is. He's supposed to marry Ginny tomorrow but the world chooses today of all days to fuck it up and send him back in time to an 8th Year he never even HAD. And, somehow, his only companion is a snarky blonde that he's taken care not to think of for the past 10 years.There's something going on here, and Harry's determined to figure it out. It's the only thing standing between him and...and home.





	1. How It Began

**Author's Note:**

> OR
> 
> The one where Harry's arm is jacked up because of spell damage and some off-brand Death Eater hexes him and Draco into a past that never existed on the timeline they come from. None of Harry's year returned for an 8th Year in the present day, but here they are in the past, stuck in a time loop that resets every 3 days. The clock is ticking, and with every reset that happens, Harry and Draco feel the effects, until eventually, they'll run the risk of dying in a past that never was.
> 
> And they'll cease to exist.
> 
> \--
> 
> Hey all, I just want to thank you guys so much for your support on the O, Sweet Soulmate series. I'm really enjoying it, but look y'all it's April and Camp NaNoWriMo just started up. Here's a 50k word fic for y'all to enjoy this month! (Assuming I keep up with it.)
> 
> Thanks so much for joining me on this journey, I'll catch you on the flip side! Don't forget to bookmark, subscribe and leave a Kudos!  
> Ness xx

**A few weeks before**

 

Harry’s had moments before where he’s looked into Robards’ eyes and honestly felt with his whole being that his superior is actually, absolutely, wholeheartedly insane. It’s not like it’s a bad thing - far from it, actually. Gawain Robards might be insane, but he was insane and mother-like, overly protective of the Aurors in his force, and Harry admired his internal strength.

The only down part of Robards’ insanity, Harry thinks, is that sometimes his superior can be a little...intense. And that intensity usually led to overly-complicated schemes and missions that he’d send Harry on, thinking that Harry’s Chosen One senses would be the saving grace for them all.

And sometimes, only sometimes, it gets on Harry’s nerves. Right now? Right now is one of those moments in which he personally wants to buy Robards a one-way ticket to the Janus Thickey ward - isn’t it his time to retire, already?

“You’re telling me there's a new branch of Death Eaters that call themselves the bloody  _Rotten Fangs,_ and they’re  _sacrificing Hogwarts kids?_ ” Harry’s voice cracks mid the word ‘Hogwarts’, and it doesn’t even matter that it’s been 10 years since he was genuinely 17, his heart aches for one of the only places he’s ever called home.

Robards purses his lips and leans back in his fancy new leather chair - the one Ron got for him on his birthday. At first, when Ron had shown Harry the night before the party, Harry had taken one look at the Muggle chair meant for spas in the dim light of the Burrow’s living room and laughed his firewhiskey out his nose.

Now, however, seeing how obviously Robards feels at home in the massage chair, something flares up in his chest at Ron. Harry pushes the feeling away and glances back to his superior, who regards him through narrowed eyes.

“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds a tad more urgent.” Robards frowns, half to himself. “I’m going to need you on your guard, Auror Potter, be ready to answer a call to action any moment now.”

Harry, all wound up and strung tight like a violin string, forces a nod, his brain already working overdrive. If he could just wait for the go-ahead, he’d make sure these Rotten Fangs regretted ever touching kids that don’t belong to them.

Robards flings him a tentative smile and adjusts his Auror robes - purple for the Head Auror - before he turns around to face the large window behind him. Harry, no matter what Ginny says, isn’t an idiot, he knows when he’s been dismissed.

He runs a hand through his dark curls, slicked back into something resembling neatness, and exits Robards’ office. Merlin, he needs a cuppa.

Harry stops by the cramped Auror kitchen on his way to Ron’s office, inhales 2 large mugs of coffee and mixes one for his best mate before he heads off.

Ron’s door is closed, so Harry presses his ear to the wood, the aroma of coffee surrounding him and fogging up his glasses. He hears voices, soft and obviously trying to be discreet, but Harry doesn’t want to be  _that_ friend.

You know, the one that has no respect for boundaries and decides that  _mi casa, su casa._ But, at this point, he’s bored, and all that’s waiting for him back at his own cubicle - not even an office, which he’s still pissed about - is a pile of teetering paperwork.

So, you can’t really blame him, can you? Harry casts a charm on the door Hermione helped him develop that turns the desired object translucent on your end while simultaneously allowing you to hear what’s happening inside the room.

It was really Hermione’s work, Harry isn’t smart enough for all the fancy magic that goes into creating a spell. He was really just there to help out her power factor - he was like the brawns, while ‘Mione was the brains. Harry shakes his head and forces himself to listen back into the office.

“You know I’m serious about this, Ron. I don’t know if he even likes taking me out, ever mind getting married to me and living next to me for however long.”

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat. It’s Ginny - his Ginny, with her fire-plated hair and her radiant smile - sitting on the edge of Ron’s desk, looking all wrong. Usually, his Ginny is all business-like and confident and taking charge.

This...this broken side of her is something Harry’s never seen before. It makes his hackles rise. Why did Ginny never bother to show how she really felt? Merlin. Harry closes his eyes, takes a deep, calming breath, and opens them again.

“Look, Gin, I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m his best mate, not a seer. Just talk to him, I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Ginny sighs, and looks around the office, seeming to search for an answer. Her eyes linger on the door that Harry stands behind, and he shifts awkwardly, hoping to Merlin that the charm isn’t malfunctioning and that somehow Ginny can see him.

But then her eyes glance away and she shoots a tired smile at Ron. “Yeah, I know. I’ll try, but he’s always neck deep in work, you know? I’m not that good myself, with the Harpies needing me each season, but at least I don’t mope about the house.”

What the fuck? How come Ginny’s never mentioned that to Harry before? A chill runs down his spine as he watches the grimace float over Ron’s face like a shadow. What the bloody hell?

Harry’s about to cancel the charm and leave Ron his coffee by the door when he hears the tell-tale sound of Robards’ boots as he marches up the hallway. Harry downs the coffee, cancels the charm and leans against the wall, hoping he doesn’t look the absolute stalker that he is.

“Auror Potter! It’s go time, I can’t have you walking around looking listless. Take your post, sharpish.”

Robards rounds the corner, face flushed red and mouth open, clearly ready to be giving another order when he spots Harry, looking most likely like a knob just leaning against a wall. He raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t say a word.” Harry sighs, “I’ll head off now, shall I?”

His superior nods, his stern face melting into an expression that Harry’s seen far too many times, both on Robards’ face and Molly Weasley’s. He sometimes wonders if they’re related, but then he gets scared and decides to stop thinking about it.

“Just be careful Harry. Remember, anything goes even remotely wrong, you call for backup and you get your sorry arse out of there. Do you understand? And keep an eye on that arm of yours.” Robards folds his arms, mouth set in a hard line as if he’s daring Harry to contradict him.

Obviously, Harry doesn’t. He likes his job, and subsequently, his life, far too much to disagree. He flexes the fingers on his right arm - the one that’s been spell-damaged for 3 odd years now. The one that’s cost him any more missions out on the field.

The only reason Robards is letting him out on this one is because it’s a simple status Yellow stakeout post. Nothing more to it.

Instead of letting his thoughts out, though, Harry mumbles a “Yes, sir,” and watches the way Robards visibly relaxes. Harry shakes his head, smiling fondly, and when he walks out of the Ministry to Apparate in a dark alleyway, he almost forgets Ginny’s conversation with Ron.

Almost.

\--

Harry arrives at his stake outpost 10 minutes early. Early for what, he doesn’t know, but it’s bloody freezing in this part of London and Harry just wants to take his position and settle down.

The sky overhead is cast a tired grey, but at least it’s not raining. This would be a hell of a lot worse had it been raining, Harry’s sure. He takes one glance at the old Victorian house he has to keep an eye on and huffs out a breath.

“Of course that’s where they’d be sacrificing children.” He mutters to himself as he slips through the open wrought-iron gates and up the gravel driveway. “Fuckin’ Malfoy Manor look-a-like.”

He pauses, not sure where that even came from. Harry blinks the unwarranted thought away, shaking his shoulder to get rid of the odd feelings it brought. He’s just tired, that’s all. On a good day, he’d never think about...about all of that. The past. It hurts too much if he does. His arm starts aching, too.

He’s just had too much coffee, gotten too into his own head, and with the wedding around the corner...Harry’s just in a worse place than normal. Come tomorrow, he’ll be right as rain.

So Harry tucks a stray curl behind his ear and slips in underneath a window ledge on the side of the mansion. A rose bush grows there, wild and unwavering, daring Harry to enter its space and initiate a war. Harry just settles himself behind it and casts a quick Warming charm.

Obviously, he should be doing this with a partner, but Robards understands Harry’s need to protect everyone if he can, his need to help. This stakeout mission...it’s not on a Red priority, so most of his friends hadn’t wanted to chip in, but Harry doesn’t like not doing as much as he can.

He took the position and was shocked to realise that this is actually a big deal, despite not being a Red.

Plus, the more Harry can do to rid the world of Death Eater wannabes, the better.

It’s not even 10 minutes of Harry sitting still and waiting for a Rotten Fang to appear before he starts to get restless. Every 20 seconds he jiggles his thigh and reaches up to peek through the window. And every 20 seconds, the curtains are still drawn, and he can’t see shit.

But he’s not one to give up, as literally everyone knows by now, so Harry keeps on checking. Surely one of the kids would start screeching, right? The moment Harry hears a scream, he’s going to rush in there, grab any child he can see and Apparate all of them out of there.

Unless the building is blocked against Apparition. Oh, shit. What if there are Wards across the whole entirety of the grounds just inside the gates to stop intruders - like Harry himself - unless they’re a member of the Rotten Fangs?

And that’s when Harry hears it - a high pitched, strangled wail coming from right within the walls of the mansion. Harry strains his ears, fingers tightening around the handle of his wand as he tries to place a voice to the sound of terror.

It sounds like a male, around 15-17 years of age. A kid, from Hogwarts, maybe? Harry doesn’t waste any more time into thinking about the details - he’s already got all the information he needs. Adrenalin sweeps up and over him like a wave, drowning Robards’ words in the back of Harry’s mind.

He doesn’t need backup; he’ll be fine. He’s Harry bloody Potter, for Merlin’s sake. He was born to fight the bad guys - it was the only thing that calmed the raging siege inside his head.

Harry jams his glasses firmly on his nose as he stands, his defensive guard on as he quickly assesses his surroundings. He glances at the window and flicks his wand at it. The latch jiggles, making a startling rattling noise that makes Harry cringe.

Fuck, he hopes that the screams of the kid cover the noises up. He flicks his wand again, and this time the old window draws all the way up with a scratching sound. Harry has no time to waste. He flings himself through the opening, glad for once in his life he’s not as tall as Ron is, and lands on the other side behind the long, silk curtain.

Voices float through from the room next to him, sounding hushed, like they’re trying to listen in for sounds.

“- you sure you heard nothing, Doug?”

“Swear boss, din’ ‘ear a thing.”

“Doug, go check what the fuck’s the problem then get back here. Swore I heard somethin’. Yale, Stun this snivelling twerp on the ground.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“Right on it, sir.”

Harry curses softly before he takes a deep breath. He can do this, he has 10 years of Auror experiences under his belt - surely he can take on some middle-aged, slow member of an off-brand Death Eater group?

Doug makes it no secret that he’s coming into the room, his steps heavy and deep like he’s wearing large work boots made for Muggle builders. He whistles a soft tune to himself, something by Christina Warbeck. Harry knows that one, himself.

What a shame, if he wasn’t here on a mission, he might’ve been friends with Doug. You know, if the other man hadn’t been an extremist, and all.

“...boss is crazy, I din’ hear nobody.”

Harry sucks in a deep breath and counts to ten. He casts Hermione’s charm and takes inventory of what Doug looks like, for the Pensieve later on. The man is short and stocky, a little plump around the middle, his stomach bulging through the lines of his Wizarding robes.

His dark hair has been shaved into a buzz cut, and unruly stubble grazes his chin, nothing like Harry’s fully grown beard. Doug looks like nothing but a Muggle comic villain, but Harry’s learned not to underestimate the enemy over the years.

Quick as a flash, Harry Vanishes the curtain and shoots a Stunner at Doug while he’s bent over to check underneath a coffee table lying in the corner.

Look, Harry knows it’s cowardly to only face your opponent when their back is turned, but he’s on his own here, and as an Auror, this counts as him having the ‘element of surprise’ on his side. Morals be damned, he’s not dying a second time.

Doug lets out a yelp, but before whoever else is there can rush in, Harry sets a quick trapping charm over the door, as well as a  _Silencio_ to stop anyone else hearing them. Then, Harry glances at Doug - it’s only two of them left.

A flash of fear crosses Doug’s face when the confusion in his eyes clears and gives way to recognition. He lifts his wand, but Harry’s not bothered because it’s shaking and dipping wildly.

“You’re...you’re Harry Potter, ain’t you?”

Harry shrugs. “Depends on who’s asking. You’re Doug, member of the Rotten Fangs, aren’t you?”

Doug blinks, clearly shaken. Harry’s heart almost turns for this guy - he looks so lost - as if he didn’t choose the Rotten Fang life, but the Rotten Fang life chose him.

“I ain’t gonna tell you nothin’.” Doug says, his voice wavering slightly, “I’m gonna...I’m gonna  _AK_ you, mate, if you don’t get outta the way.”

Harry suppresses a snort. He sends a burst of blue at Doug, who leaps out of the way. Harry springs up a Shield charm at the curse his opponent sends, and soon Harry is engaged in a battle of spells - one he hasn’t had in a long time.

Doug is quick with his spells, which is both surprising and unsurprising to Harry. They shoot spell after spell, Doug sweaty and red, Harry breathing heavily, his eyes wild. His faulty arm, his fucking wand arm, nonetheless, is quivering, but Harry holds on to his wand.

He needs to win this, it’s only one guy, how hard could it actually be?

As if right on cue, Harry’s arm buckles in on itself, twisting painfully from the magical energy he’s expending, and Harry knows he’s done for. Doug takes his chance.The man locks his legs in a jinx, but before Harry can scream the counterspell Doug shoots a ball of lime coloured light at Harry’s forehead, where his scar is.

Harry’s breath catches in his chest as pain - all-consuming  _pain_ \- travels from his scar to all his nerve endings in hot flashes. His body, still tied up, convulses like he’s an animal with rabies.

He’s dealt with more than this, but for some reason, whatever spell Doug’s cast on him makes Harry want to kill himself with his own ‘ _AK.’_ The pain is... _fuck._

Harry’s sure he’s foaming at the mouth, but before his vision goes, he struggles to unjinx himself, grips his wand tightly and Apparates to St Mungos.

 _No anti-Apparition wards, then,_  Harry thinks as he collapses on the bleached ground before the receptionist’s desk.  _Merlin, I’m getting too old for this._

His vision stutters, before the pain wrenches him into darkness.


	2. Draco Malfoy Is An Idiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco likes to fuck women behind his fianceés back. Well, he doesn't LIKE to, he just HAS to. To get rid of his terrible, unnatural disease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see Dane Dehaan playing Draco Malfoy in this fic (Seriously dudes look at him:https://pics.onsizzle.com/catkey23-fallout-dane-dehaan-as-draco-malfoy-whos-with-me-9337216.png) He's so beautiful I cri.  
> Draco's a bit of a dick in this chapter, and it's not that good, but whatever. iT'S NIGHT AND i'M TIRED.
> 
> Don't forget to leave a kudos and comment if you liked it! Thanks so much for reading <3

 

****

**Also, A Few Weeks Before**

 

There’s no denying it - Draco is completely and utterly shit-faced drunk, and even Salazar couldn’t help him at this point. He’s just been sucked off by the most talented Muggle woman, really, she was great and Draco should feel honoured, dammit. Not like he’s just failed his N.E.W.T.S.

Her eyes were the colour of half-brewed coffee beans, and her lips were like...like clouds. He thunks his forehead on the grungy bathroom stall door, eyes closed and struggling to breathe.

The woman was petite and had beautiful mocha skin. She was exotic, every man’s fantasy. So why the fuck couldn’t Draco get hard enough for her?

She had been so sweet, smiling prettily at him with her row of white teeth and telling him that it was no bother, probably the amount of alcohol he’d had messing with his hormones. He’d came, rather half-heartedly, in the blatant heat of her mouth.

And he’d felt nothing. Nothing but the mechanical motions of spurting spunk from his prick - no feelings, so sated haze. The woman - Lui, Draco thinks her name is. He can’t be sure, he’s half out of his mind right now - had given him a hug, her phone number and a sweet grin.

Then she’d left, not even fazed by the guys that leered at her by the urinals. They’d given Draco congratulatory smirks, even though he’d had no idea who the fuck they were. Then they’d left, and now Draco’s alone in a bathroom stall with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.

Draco blinks open his eyes and stretches, glancing once more at the grey stall he’d been sucked off in. Graffiti covers every inch, some cool, others drunken spurs of the moment that happened with a borrowed Sharpie from a mate.

There was a story behind each one - a story Draco would’ve loved to explore further if his brain had been comfortable doing anything more than calculating two plus two.

Circe, his life is a fucking mess. Draco groans, rubs a hand over his face wearily and brushes his short hair into place. The glint of his engagement ring makes the Vodka and rum in his stomach roll dangerously, but Draco bites down hard on his lip, ignoring the copper taste of blood.

Astoria isn’t home until tomorrow, 10 am, when she returns from visiting her parents. Draco has plenty of time to get to the Manor, eat a hearty meal, down a glass of juice and get as sober and free of the alcohol smell as he can before then.

He’ll be fine. He always is.

So Draco makes his first mistake of his week, happily unaware of how that one mistake will go on to fuck him over. He stays at the bar, nursing a glass of water, while he watches people and allows others to eye fuck him.

It’s his Friday night routine, and it’s shit, but it’s...he needs it. There’s literally no other way to...anyway. The pub he’s chosen is a small one, off the corner of Downing Street, and it caught his eye because it reminded him of the friendly mess of colour and fun that is Diagon Alley.

The Turban is a small thing, round in shape and painted in broken jigsaw pieces. Draco’s seen the owners, a Malaysian couple, retouching the paint every season, and he supposes he can’t blame them for how shit the bathrooms are.

He thinks they’ve hired a cleaner for those; someone who’s been paid extra to deal with the mess.

Draco checks the Muggle wristwatch Astoria got him for his 26th birthday last year - his stomach churns, again but he ignores it, again - and sighs. He rubs his eyes - it’s time to go home.

And so off Draco goes, carrying his water with him, and feels a bit bad for stealing the glass, so he leaves 5 pounds on the bar counter on his way out the door. One of the owners flashes him a smile and a wave.

Draco doesn’t smile, but he does wave back, before he disappears out into the dark scene of the late night. The sky outside isn’t black, but a deep, midnight blue. It smells of London, still, no matter how pretty it is, of pollution and gases from the contraptions Muggles called cars.

Draco finds an alleyway, already occupied by an alley cat that eyes him with apprehension, and Apparates to the Manor. He’d sobered up a bit - the water had certainly helped, as had the guilt - so he’s sure he’ll be fine.

Well, as fine as Ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy can be.

\--

“Good Morning, darling. Have you seen today’s issue of the Prophet? I scarcely believe - oh. You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you?”

Draco glances up from his large breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, fried tomatoes, black and white pudding, and a side of oranges. The oranges are for balance - his Mind Healer said so. He grimaces when his eyes land on Astoria, looking put-together and the very epitome of a well-behaved Pureblood financeé.

He begins to hate himself more, which he never thought even possible, and looks away from his wife-to-be as he shovels more eggs into his mouth.

Astoria frowns, her hand on her hip while her chestnut hair bobs in neat curls around her shoulders. “Draco, I can tell you’ve been drinking. You’re forgetting to eat with dignity, so obviously, a hangover has affected your brain cells.”

Draco shrugs, hating the way his fork trembles when he stabs into a piece of bacon. “Hello to you too, then. Nice weekend?”

“You’re also not talking in correct sentences. What have I said about depleting your Mother’s stash, Draco? You’re too old for this...this drivel.”

Sometimes, Draco wonders why every woman in his life is a perceptive, meddling little shit. He suppresses a yawn, and blinks wearily up at Astoria, holding his hands in mock surrender.

“Okay,” he slips a deprecating smile onto his face,”you got me. I’m sorry, alright? I was missing you too much, I had to distract myself with something. I may have gotten a tad bit carried away.”

His fianceé looks like she’s ready to discredit every single word of his lie, but she just sighs and shakes her head. Her laugh is small and sounds like pity to Draco’s ears - he hates it. He drops his hands, and suddenly they feel too heavy to pick up his fork, so Draco just sits staring at his fianceé.

Finally, Astoria smooths out her features, and hands him the newspaper she had come into the kitchen to bother him with instead of going to have a shower and change clothing.

Draco raises an eyebrow at her, and settles his gaze on the front page of the Prophet. He blinks, and for an odd fucking moment, the whole world seems to shut down around him, leaving just him and his newspaper in the middle.

Harry Potter, pale and sickly-looking, even though the picture’s in black and white, lies on the ground in front of the receptionist at St Mungo’s. Before the picture resets, Draco catches a glimpse of Healer robes rushing in to whisk him away to a room.

He gulps, clenching all ten of his toes to stop his fingers from shaking, and slips a deadpan mask over his face. “What does Potter have to do with how I’m perceiving the world today?” He asks, because there’s nothing else he can do.

He doesn’t give a shit about Potter, but somehow the knowledge of knowing that their supposed Saviour is actually defeatable makes him feel very complicated things, indeed. Astoria doesn’t seem so taken in his conviction of Potter being an idiot - he swears if she had the choice between him and that speccy git she’d dump Draco in Fiendfyre and be off.

Draco closes his eyes, forcing himself to breathe calmly through flared nostrils. For Salazar’s sake, he can’t afford to break down just because his mind is dead set on disobeying him this morning. He still has the accounts to do up, had the figures to calculate, and the Quibbler is waiting for another of his articles.

Well. Not his, exactly. More, Devon Maples’ article, the pseudonym he uses in each and every piece of writing of his. He loves the past time, but his Mother’s disappointment and Astoria’s disgust when he brought it up once was enough to deter him from telling the world it was he who wrote some newspaper and magazine articles.

They’d rip up his work, piece by piece, from every paper and magazine there is.

“- so, you see Draco, Potter is a hero, really. Trying to save those poor kids, and getting cursed in the process. The public don’t know how he ended up in St Mungo’s, yet, but we’ll find out, dear Draco. Don’t worry.”

Astoria pats Draco’s arm, reminding him that, as always, she’s talking about Potter.

Circe, couldn’t the woman give it a rest? “Look, ‘Tori, maybe you should go and fake being asleep, okay? I fear I hear Mother’s footsteps yonder the staircase.” Draco says it as nicely as he can, seriously, he really does.

But Astoria still flashes him a look of ill-conceived hurt and grabs the newspaper from Draco’s hand, before she stomps out of the kitchen.

Draco doesn’t care, he’s fucking tired, and he still has two slices of toast to go through. He closes his eyes, and begins to eat.

A little while later, Draco is disturbed in the green drawing room by Dinky, a new house elf that has followed Draco around after he helped free him from a nasty Wizard in Nocturn, and his Mother.

Narcissa Malfoy carries herself with poise and grace, but even so, Draco can still see the pain in the creases of her eyes and the furrow of her brow. The disease - a rare branch of a magical parasite - hasn’t been easy, on either of them.

Draco’s had to sacrifice his life of freedom to take care of his Mother, and Narcissa has to watch as her son lies to what Draco’s sure she thinks is the love of his life. And Draco’s too scared to tell her that he might have a disease, as well.

Something unnatural and messed up and so blatantly fucked that -

“Draco, darling. Astoria said you’d be down here by this time of the evening. Beautiful how she seems to know where you’ll be before I do, isn’t it?”

Draco makes a face, but nods anyways. He calls it obsessive behaviour, but then again, he can’t talk, really. He knows a thing or two about obsessive behaviour.

“Did you see that article in the Prophet about poor Mr. Potter? Terrible, wasn’t it?” Narcissa has to sit down, with Dinky’s help, and Draco feels the right dick for not volunteering to help her, but...well, he’s always been a bit of a disappointment, hasn’t he?

“Yes, Mother, I heard. Is there a reason you’re here at this time, anyway?” Draco doesn’t need to ask, he can see it in the way his Mother wrings her gloved hands together. She has something disagreeable to say.

She’s had to start wearing gloves, after one of her ‘friends’ had called the yellow veins pulsing underneath her skin ‘revolting’ and ‘disgustingly abnormal Narcissa, have you thought to get help?’

Draco’s eye twitches at the thought, and he looks up from his book to find his Mother watching him.

“Well, you see...I was wondering why on earth you and Astoria haven’t once had a conversation about, well, having a child and -”

Panic, deep and long-since buried, utter fucking panic takes over his body, and Draco sits bolt upright. He knows he looks like he’s ready to sprint off any minute, but he doesn’t care. Where had that come from? Circe, is it too late to jump from the 3rd floor balcony?

It takes every ounce of Pureblood training for Draco to mold his features into something he thinks is polite disinterest before he can talk without his voice breaking under pressure.

“Mother, we’ve already talked about this and Astoria and I agree that we’ll wait until sometime after marriage.”

Draco watches as his Mother’s face shuts down into polite acknowledgement. “Yes, darling, I know but -”

“But nothing,” He interrupts, his mouth pursed. “It’s my life, Mother. You don’t control it, not anymore. No one does, and no one ever will.”

Deep down, Draco knows he’s full of bull - look at the situation he’s managed to get himself into, if you don’t believe him - but, at this point, he doesn’t give a shit.

His Mother slips her lips into a hard line, and snaps her fingers for Dinky to help her. Dinky gives Draco a look that screams of an apology as he leads Narcissa out of the drawing room. Draco just smiles weakly, and watches his Mother go.

Circe, when did life become so complicated?


	3. A Pot Life For Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry can't seem to catch a break today - his scar's hurting, after 10 years of being dormant.

Harry scrubs the sweat off of his face and watches as his thick hair unfurls slowly from the bun he’d shoved it into yesterday, falling into his eyes. He’s tired - so fucking tired, but he’s only just woken up and he doesn’t need Robards on his back for being late, even though Harry literally has nothing going for him at his cubicle except for paperwork and reports.

Not that Harry’s going to work today, which subsequently means that his reasoning for getting up makes no sense, but he doesn’t care.

Ever since Harry’s made a massive cock of himself at his last stakeout, everyone’s been treating him like he’s a disabled Wizard incapable of taking care of himself. Hermione’s cast so many diagnosis charms Harry doesn’t even know what she’s trying to reveal, Ron’s insisted he stays home ‘to rest’, and Ginny...well.

The Healers at St Mungo’s had assured Harry that there was no residual magic left in his system, but looking at himself now in the mirror he can’t help but think that he’s fucked. No wonder Hermione kept freaking out.

For the past two nights, he’s slowly been deteriorating in the amount of sleep he gets - going from 6 hours to 4, to only an hour and a half today. He doesn’t know why it’s happening; why his scar’s hurting after 10 years of being dormant - or why the fuck he’s been dreaming of moon-lit pools of silver when he does manage to sleep.

He just hopes it goes away soon because he’s supposed to be marrying Ginny tomorrow, and he can’t look like he’d rather be anywhere but in the Burrow’s back garden. Even if that’s somewhat half-true, Harry tries not to think about that.

In the ensuite bedroom, Ginny shifts in bed and grumbles at Harry to “fucking hurry up, it’s cold,” startling Harry from his mini-freakout.

He blinks and realises that he’s been gripping the edge of his sink so tightly that his knuckles have gone a pale yellow. He lets go and watches the splotches of blood flush in and seep into his hands. “Yeah, I’m coming Gin,” he sighs through the sudden rush of vertigo that passes over his eyes.

Harry stares into his blood-shot eyes one last time, a small frown on his face - he’ll ask Hermione to try check again, his beard hair’s been falling out, and he’s starting to look a bit like he had back when he was 18.

Yes, Harry nods to himself. He’s sure Hermione will actually know what she’s talking about this time, she was Head Healer in St Mungos for a reason. With renewed vigour, Harry steps into the bedroom he shares with his whiny, annoying, absolutely boring fianceé.

He’s joking. Well, Harry thinks he’s joking, anyway. He doesn’t like to think about those thoughts too much, and instead focuses on his wedding, which is tomorrow.

“Move, Gin.” He nudges the blob underneath the white sheets until Ginny’s head pops out of her cocoon, her hair reminding Harry of a pool of copper blood. He averts his eyes, suppressing a shiver.

Unwanted images surge through his mind; tinted bathroom tiles, artificial light on a glint of platinum hair, the look of betrayal when -

“What do you want?” Ginny grumbles into the air, an annoyed look twisting her pretty features. “Also, what the bloody hell is wrong with your eyes? You look absolutely high.” She waves a hand lazily in the general direction of his face, and Harry bristles.

Look, he knows he looks like shit - he has done for months, now, but she doesn’t have to be so rude about it. Instead of replying, Harry glances around the room he let Ginny decorate when she’d moved in.

Their bedroom is a decent size, large without being too overpowering, and cosy without being too cluttered. Ginny’s Harpies posters are stuck up all over the walls, and Harry’s Firebolt has been stashed away in a corner somewhere.

Not for the first time, Harry wonders when this place had become more of her den of hiding than his.

Ginny’s left the window open so the curtains flap in an odd way she knows he doesn’t like, but he leaves her be because he knows she gets irritable when her odd body temperature needs aren’t met.

To be fucking honest, Harry’s tired of all this business, of all the tiptoeing around each other until after the wedding, but he supposes that he can’t complain. There are a lot of people out there who are worse off than him, so his problems seem minuscule in comparison.

Harry blinks when Ginny clears her throat, and he realises that she must have been waiting for his answer the past 5 minutes. His cheeks heat up in a slow, hazy blush, and Harry shakes his head to get any last vestiges of self-pity to slide back into a dank corner of his mind.

“I’m fine, Gin, honest.” He studiously ignores her look of disbelief, ”Don’t you have a pitch to be wreaking havoc on instead of snoring under the duvet?”

At that, Ginny lets out an unattractive snort and shakes her head. “Why do you always want me gone? It’s like...like ever since you proposed to me that you’d rather be somewhere else than here with me.”

Right. So they’re having this conversation, then - the day before their wedding. Harry tries not to sigh and scrub his eyes - they’re itching like someone’s thrown George’s Itch-For-Days! Powder at him - and leans against the mahogany dresser beside their bed, racking his brain for something reasonable to say.

Now, it’s well known that Harry James Potter is not a sensible man, and flies off the cuff with his act-now-think-never approach to things, so when the next words escape his mouth, he’s not even surprised.

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one who lies to my brother about my fianceé now, am I?” Harry gapes at himself, fairly sure he looks like a knob with a fish’s mouth, but all he can do is bury his face in his hands, not keen to see Ginny’s reaction to his ill-timed words.

Silence descends between them, thick and choking. The curtain flap and Harry shivers at the coldness of the room.

“I can’t even believe that you’d _do_ that - stalk your own best mate and his sister - but that’s not the point right now. Harry, I’m not lying, haven’t you ever thought about what it seems like to me? You’re always in your damned cubicle, doing absolutely nothing because nobody trusts you enough to not go out into the field and keep yourself and that _bloody arm_ safe!” She’s screaming now, but Harry’s not affected by the words she uses.

Afterall, everyone says them to him, every hour of the fucking day. No, what Harry’s concerned about is the way Ginny is looking at him, just a bit wild around the mouth, with large eyes and anger pouring from the very roots of her hair.

She speaks to him like she hates him - like everything he does it a mess and he won’t ever get his life right.

“I’m not a cripple.” He spits unpleasantly and curls his fingers tight to stop himself from hexing her into next week. “I like my job, Gin, and if that’s something you don’t agree with, then that’s too bad. It’s _my_ life, and I can choose what I do with it.”

And just like that, she deflates. Ginny sags back down into the covers, her anger had made her sit up with flushed skin and a creased forehead. Harry hates it - this Ginny reminds him of the one in Ron’s office like she’s lost a battle she’d already resigned to.

“Harry, I’m not saying you’re a cripple. I’ve been talking about it with Dean and he thinks that -”

At that, Harry pauses, and whatever Ginny’s saying goes straight through one ear and out the other. “Dean? Dean _Thomas_? What the everloving fuck does he have to do with _anything_?”

Ginny blushes - her freckled skin erupts in splotches of red that clashes with her hair and she looks right flustered, but she shakes her head, hands set in firm fists in her lap.

“It doesn’t matter, because everyone agrees you’re too...you, too important to lose, Harry. You need a job that’s less dangerous, thank you very much. I’d rather not mourn for the boy I love a second time.”

Harry forces himself to calm down at that because his scar is hurting and Merlin, he feels like a knob but too many emotions are curling around him to focus right now on anything. Even though she’s just said that she loves him, she loves him no matter what’s happened to them in the past. No matter what might happen in the future.

Neither of them says anything, and Harry supposes they’re both too scared to take a stab at the tension surrounding them, in case it shatters and cuts their skin. So Ginny rolls out of bed, and Harry watches her as she stretches, watches the gentle curve of her stomach and the soft swell of her breasts.

It frightens him that his fingers don’t ache to touch her like they used to.

“I’ll see you later, Harry, the Harpies won’t win by themselves. Don’t forget to pick up a bottle of Pepper-Up, will you?”

And just like that, Harry knows he’s forgiven. Ginny flashes him a weary smile, one that he doesn’t think to return because his head is so full of thoughts, and his scar gives another strange pulse.

Before his lips can pull into something resembling forgiveness, Ginny’s already sashaying out of the room and into the en-suite, and Harry’s not sure if he’s glad, or disappointed. He gives up, and once he’s sure she’s not going to open the door, he slumps onto the bed and wishes that for once in his life he could bloody sleep and stop overthinking things.

\--

Harry’s never been a big fan of crowds, or of paparazzi, or even of rain. Ergo, his opinion of Diagon Alley in the heart of Wizarding London isn’t very high. Come to think of it, the only fond memory Harry holds of Diagon Alley is the first time he’d ever come, Hagrid in tow to keep the masses at bay.

And now here he is, a few weeks after a massive cock up, and reporters are ready to catch the slightest glimpse of discomfort in regarding his arm. Witch Weekly has already commented on the state of his appearance and wondering why he’s gone for a clean-shaven look this Autumn, and Harry can’t even be bothered to care anymore.

“Mr Potter, over here!”

“No, Potter, look at the camera!”

“Here, Harry, can you smile, yeah?”

“- Honestly, he looks a bit depressed, doesn’t he? Can’t have that.”

“How’s your arm, Mr Potter? Doing well, I see. Give us an interview, five minutes is all I need!”

Harry ignores the earnest faces and flashy cameras, his head bent down and the hood of his jacket pulled high over his head. He’s worn his curls in his eyes today, flopping over his forehead to hide the scar that’s begun to flare up in an ugly purple sort of colour.

He prays to Merlin they don’t get a picture of it. He knows he looks like a drowned kneazle caught in headlights, hiding from the rain and running from his fellow witches and wizards, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

Doug crosses his mind, and Harry wonders how the bastard is doing in the confines of the Ministry, being interrogated using every last drop of Veritaserum they have. He hopes they’ve stopped him from humming Christina Warbeck tracks. It’s the least the bastard should get.

Harry’s sure he’s lost the reporters and the ‘concerned’ fans, so he turns the corner by Gringotts bank and promptly collides with a harassed-looking Draco Malfoy.

His heart stops beating, suddenly thrust into the confines of his throat, and he watches Malfoy pick himself off the ground where he’d fallen. Malfoy shoots Harry a glare that makes him glad that looks can’t, in fact, kill.

“Potter.” Malfoy spits, grey eyes flashing with something dangerous. Harry blinks because for just half a second he’s sure Malfoy’s eyes resembled moonlit pools of… “Any chance you’d fuck off out of my way, Potty? Or do you want me to grovel?”

Harry blinks at Malfoy again, and even he can feel that his sneer comes too little, too late. Still, it doesn’t stop him from trying, now does it? “Sod off, Malfoy.” He hisses underneath his breath.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “What, are you trying to hex me, too? I thought you’d be above that - we are almost 30, after all.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the fact that Malfoy says _we_ , or if it’s the knowledge that someone’s trying to hex the Slytherin git - not that Harry can blame whoever it is - or if it’s even how Malfoy doesn’t mention Harry’s...er, _incident_ , but Harry decides to leave Malfoy well alone.

He’s too tired to fight, and his scar’s bothering him more than he cares to admit.

“Whatever, Malfoy, contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually have time for you, right now. Or ever, really. I have better places to be, better things to do - see you never, you wanker.” With that, Harry fucks off into the dim street of Diagon Alley, not even glancing back once.

He wasn’t lying; George really is expecting him at the shop, and he can’t afford to be distracted by the man he hasn’t seen since the Trials, all those years ago.

The knowledge that people still think to target Malfoy as an outlet for their grief and anger doesn’t sit well with Harry, makes him squirm with discomfort.

How has his life gone to pot so quickly?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading this chapter! Don't worry y'all, next chapter Harry and Draco will be whisked away into the magical world of a time loop! I hope I don't mess this fic up, lol.


	4. Drowned Street Rats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco stumbles upon Lavender Brown, and he really wishes he hadn't.

Draco doesn’t think he’s ever experienced something so utterly humiliating as being dismissed by Potter, of all people, but he’d rather not think about it as he flees back the way he came and ducks into a nearby alleyway.

He ignores the stench of rotten, wet garbage in bin bags that line the backs of shop doors - Salazar, of course, he’d somehow managed to slink down the side of Slug and Jiggers - and finds himself a side door to lean against.

When the immediate danger of being humiliated amongst Wizarding society has vanished, Draco slams his head against the door and lets out a choked sob. His heart aches in his chest, and he’s more than a little horrified at the deep welling of self-pity that rises up through his throat.

A flush takes over his face, and Draco tries to breathe through his nostrils instead of through his mouth, but it’s too clogged with snot. Fuck, he’s disgusting, how the hell can Astoria live with him? How the hell can anyone live with him?

Draco runs a hand through his hair - it’s grown inexplicably longer ever since a few weeks ago, and Draco’s well on his way to looking like how he did when he was 18.

He clenches his fists. He’s not worth anyone’s time, is he? Much less the great and powerful Harry Potter - and now Draco really fucking hates himself for thinking any of these things. They toe the line of Draco being the next best pre-teen Harry James Potter fan club leader and he doesn’t even know why.

For a good ten years, he’s been good at not remembering that his ex-arch-nemesis exists - well, mostly, if Astoria didn’t adore the specky git so much - he has no idea why this bout of shame and - and anger threatens to overwhelm him now, just when he’s settled into the idea of being a lying cheat.

It must be the growing tiredness - yes, that sounds plausible, right? Draco hasn’t had a wink of sleep for Circe only knows how long, and his evenings now are more often than not spent scouring Muggle bars for pretty young things to take his mind off things.

They’re all willing enough - they buy him tequilas and large, flowery beverages that Draco suffers through for sultry eyes and pouty lips mouthing around his cock, and it’s been okay, as far as shitty life-goals go.

But then after he’s come in their mouths and his mind’s calmed down, all he feels is worse about his whole situation, and Draco retreats to The Turban where he’s taken to chatting to Divya, one of the owners, and he really does like her. She reminds him of Pansy, who’s in France and who he hardly ever sees her anymore.

Draco honestly feels like he’s drowning, living a life in which he deals in self-deprecating smiles and evasive comments. His lips are so accustomed to only speaking deceptive lies that he hardly knows what the truth feels like to say, anymore. And he hates it.

He lets out another ragged breath and blinks his eyes open. He’s been so distracted by his own sadness and pathetic excuses that he hardly noticed it’s been raining. Cold rain waiter slides down past the neckline of his turtleneck and soaks his chest, sending the black fabric clinging to his skin. His hair hangs in his eyes and Draco flings his head back, eyes open and welcoming the water to cool his flaming cheeks.

“...Draco? Is that you?”

Oh, fuck. Oh shitty, buggering, bloody fuck, _fuck_! Draco tries to suppress a screech and ends up letting out an odd sort of noise that starts up in the back of his throat, but he flicks his eyes to the familiar bouncy set of dirty blonde curls.

“Ms Brown, how pleased I am to see you again.”

Look, just because Draco thinks he should be at least a smidge bit more honest in life, doesn’t mean he has to start right away. He should get to enjoy some of life’s lesser worries - such as lying to Lavender Brown.

Speaking of, the woman has grown up nicely from the 19-year-old girl Draco used to know. Her body fills her brown cardigan and black jeans nicely, but instead of lingering on her boobs, Draco’s gaze flickers to the dirt patches all over her clothes. And the fact that she looks like a drowned rat due to the murky London rain.

Lavender smiles shyly, her eyes lowering to coast over Draco’s form - he’s wearing all black, of course, like any respectable pureblood should be doing - before they flick back up to his.

“I didn’t expect you to be here.”

Draco snorts. Obviously, neither did he, but he doesn’t say anything of the sort. For a prostitute, Lavender’s pick-up lines are rather weak - and she looks like she’s going to one of those unnecessary Muggle church services (Circe, she’s wearing a cardigan!)

“What do you want, Ms Brown?” Draco asks, slipping on his familiar smile. The one that screams ‘I’m humble, jerk me off, please and thanks.’ He’s proud of this one - he’d practised it for ages once he’d realised that Astoria wasn’t going to help him fix...fix whatever it is that he’s gotten into his mind that he needs to fix before their wedding.

Which, Draco realises with understandable horror, is tomorrow, and he’s still -

“I was thinking, Draco...that, that we had such a good time, back when we were kids. Imagine what a good time we’d have now, with more experiences under our belt?” Lavender blinks through her lengthy eyelashes, suddenly looking the picture of sin and sex - such a pity the sight still does nothing to Draco’s libido. “I’d do anything you ask - for a price, of course.”

Draco inclines his head, allowing his smile to grow into a sly grin. “Of course. Sorry, love, I’ve got the rest of my life after tomorrow to be a one-woman band. Good luck on your adventures, though.”

He makes to slip past her lithe frame when a soft hand reaches out to grasp his wrist with surprising strength. “Wait - Draco.”

Lavender’s eyes are so earnest, and if Draco looks a little closer, which he doesn’t really want to, he can see the twinges of desperation in the corners of her eyelashes.

And suddenly the pin drops.

“You’re homeless, aren’t you?” He whispers, and Salazar, it shouldn’t make his heart ache for her, but it does. Because he knows what it feels like to be homeless - to feel so out of place in a world where nobody is fond of helping the needy.

And Lavender’s scratches all down the side of her face probably aren’t doing wonders for her prostitute life. But then again, Draco’s made his peace with that part of his life - her life - eight years ago.

Lavender doesn’t meet his eyes for a moment, and he watches her gather herself before she takes a deep breath. “I - yes. It’s not ideal, but I make ends meet most days. I’d really love to have the sex, though. Maybe tonight? A few galleons are all I’ll take, Draco, I don’t need…”

Draco can’t even blame her for the way she trails off, because she does need, she needs as many galleons as she can get her hands on, and Draco is just there so why couldn’t he just throw her a few?

But he can’t.

Fuck, there’s a reason why he just lets women suck him off instead of him trying to stick his prick in any other orifice of theirs, isn’t there? A reason that he’d rather not explore further, and he closes his eyes to regain his composure.

When he opens them again, the pressure on his wrist has disappeared and Lavender’s gone, leaving only the faint scent of tacky sweat and poverty lingering around him.

“Shit,” he sighs and rubs his eyes.

Well, there’s nothing to do about it, now, he can’t pine about forever. He’s fucked up, failed to help someone he could’ve so easily helped - someone who’s been in the same position he was, years ago - and that’s that.

He’s not a fucking Saint, now is he? Draco wipes his face and ignores the near-painful pattering of the rain as he slopes back into the teeming masses passing down Diagon Alley.

\--

Draco’s never once thought that he doesn’t deserve everything that the Wizarding World has given him so far - all the sneers, and the glares with hatred lingering deep in the pupils, and more often than not - the hexes.

Most of the time they’re mild things - things that any Shield charm could keep up with if tried, and Draco’s glad no one with serious skill thinks to care about his existence - but then there is the odd time that he looks into someone’s eyes and knows he’s fucked.

Now is one of those times. It’s bad enough that Draco had to put up with Harry fucking Potter acting all high-and-mighty and like butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth, acting like a spare ex-Death Eater isn’t worth his time without Draco having to deal with rogue hexes, too.

He doesn’t make it a habit to think about Potter when he’s about to get hexed, but he knows that everything he’s just thought is true. Potter doesn’t have time for people like him - cowardly bastards with fading Dark Marks and the affinity to cheating on their partners.

Not the mention the fact he’d let Lavender go on looking like a drowned rat.

The hooded man does nothing to conceal his ill-intentions towards Draco, and Draco finds himself backed into yet another pongy alleyway. He’s becoming rather acquainted with them, now, he feels.

It’s not like Draco isn’t scared - hell, his legs are shaking in his chinos and he’s not so sure he’s ever been so out of breath in his life - but he isn’t about to show it. He’s already fucked, and he’s learned from personal experience that showing any form of weakness is a bad idea, somehow gives the bastards a power rush and causes them to go berserk.

“Draco Malfoy, you deserve everything you get.”

Draco commits the voice to memory, in case he’ll, by the grace of Salazar, actually be alive by the end of this whole ordeal so he can shove this memory into a Pensieve. It sounds sort of familiar, like the type of voice he’d hear during Ministry functions, faint and distant and sitting just on the edge of his thoughts.

“- and are you even listening to me? I could Avada Kedavra you without a moment’s notice!”

Draco barely blinks. Whoever this is, is clearly an idiot. Draco’s well used to being insulted and threatened, this far into his adult life.

Still, the man steps closer to Draco, so close that he can smell the garlic on his hot breath.

Draco cringes and manages a shrug without allowing his shoulders to tremble. “Can you please get on with it? A _Bat Bogey_ will do, I wager unless you’re feeling adventurous and you’d like to try a _Jelly-Legs_?”

Sometimes, Draco wonders if he has a death wish.

When the hooded man lets out a blood-curdling growl - a feral, emotionless thing that sets Draco’s blood to stone - and all Draco can do is hysterically chuckle, he decides that yes; he does have a death wish.

Then man snarls once, sending a fresh wave of garlic breath into Draco’s very delicate personal bubble, and raises his wand. Draco doesn’t even bother using his - it’s been faulty ever since Potter managed to...yes, and anyway, he’d rather not somehow send himself off to space by accident.

At this point, Draco’s shaking, and his resolve breaks down as he closes his eyes. Any slight sounds - the rain pattering softly, now on both of their clothing, the sound of a stray cat yowling - makes him jump.

“Nervous, are we?” The man chuckles, low and deep, and Draco, eyes still closed, shoots him a scowl. “Don’t worry, you’ll only feel a tad little...pinch…”

And then Draco’s world is erupting a paragon of lime green light. His body jitters with pain, scorching, searing pain that feels like his limbs are being torn off, one by one. He gasps, his eyes snap open and Draco watches the man, hood covering his face, damn him, as he backs away.

Draco’s Dark Mark flares up, and for a split second, through the pain and the jerking, Draco is seized with the blinding fear that The Dark Lord is back.   
He passes out to a swollen Dark Mark and lime coloured balls of light flashing behind his eyelids.

\--

When Draco comes to, it’s in the doorway of a shop that he doesn’t bother to check the name of, slumped awkwardly against the wall as passersby ignore his very existence.

Is this what his life has come to? That he’s been so thoroughly hexed his skin still tingles, and yet no one cares about him enough to ask him if he’s alright? Not that he cares. Oh, no, Draco doesn’t give a shit, as he’s sure anyone can tell.

He sighs into his hands and scrubs his hair back from his eyes. To escape the disgusted glances, Draco stumbles to his feet and steps into the tempting, comforting warmth of the shop. It’s only when he realises that he’s somehow - of _fucking_ course - stepped into that infernal Weasley shop does Draco immediately regret his life decisions.

And if that’s not bad enough, Harry bloody Potter stumbles into him, again. Potter steps back, and just for one second, Draco is graced with the soft, earnest look Potter must give to anyone he causes discomfort towards. The git’s lips are pursed like he’s about to say sorry for the inconvenience - which Draco would like, thank you very much - when recognition flashes in his eyes.

“Malfoy.” Potter nods, but Draco catches the distinct twitch in the corner of his right eye. “Come to stalk me, have you? You’re not wanted here, in case you couldn’t tell, so please fuck off.”

At first, Draco is so overcome by the pain of his Dark Mark flaring around Potter that it takes him a while to notice Potter’s scar. It’s inflamed like the bastard’s been rubbing at it over and over, and Draco has to keep his own hand on his left forearm to stop his fingers from reaching out to caress Potter’s forehead.

Which is a more disturbing thought than...than anything, really.

“Malfoy, I bloody well told you to do something, so get the fuck _out_.” Potter shoves Draco, and in that split second that both their wrists brush together, Draco knows that somehow, Potter’s managed to fuck up his life, again.

They both collapse onto the floor of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, eyes filling with an unnatural, inescapable light that blinds Draco.

Oh, bloody buggering fuck.


	5. Harry And His Bucket Full Of Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Harry has just woken up, dammit, and he doesn't understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say that right now, the drama factor is low - as is the Drarry factor - BUT IT WILL COME, Y'ALL. Just you guys wait and see, I got it all planned out. Sort of. Kind of.
> 
> Meh. We'll see.

Harry wakes up to restricted movement, dark brown eyes and a terrifyingly disarming smirk. He shrieks, instinctively casting around for his wand with one arm while the other flings his attacker off the bed with a solid punch.

“Ow, what the fuck, Potter?” His attacker groans from the floor, but Harry isn’t paying attention because he’s grabbing his wand by his nightstand and is about to shoot a hex at the wizard when the man’s words stop him.

That voice...it sounds so familiar, but distantly so. Harry takes an innocent peek over the side of his bed, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses to clear them. Blaise Zabini scowls at him from the floor, and Harry’s heart sinks.

“Zabini? What the fuck are you doing in my room?” He hisses and cringes at the dryness of his throat. Merlin, he needs some water.

Zabini grumbles to himself as he gets up, shooting Harry a harassed look. “Are you sick, or something? I live here too, Potter. As do Smith and Draco, or have you forgotten them, as well?”

The man yawns and scrubs at his neatly trimmed afro. “Speaking of Draco, I noticed he was looking rather dishevelled this morning as he practically sprinted out of here. I don’t suppose you have anything to do with that?”

Harry blushes as confusion swirls through him. “How would I know? Shut up Zabini.” He pauses. “Er - I don’t suppose you have the time and the day?” It takes everything in his soul not to lash out and hex the man to smithereens.

He’s never much liked Zabini if you can’t tell.

The scowl on Zabini’s face clears as he flashes Harry a smile that could only be laced with friendliness and Harry’s head reels. “You always ask that on Thursdays, even though you should know it’s a Thursday, Potter. That’s why I’ve taken to sitting on your chest these mornings, so you remember. It’s nearly 7, by the way.”

Zabini snatches a magazine - Harry thinks it’s Quidditch Weekly, though he can’t figure out why. Zabini’s never been interested in the rough sport - from his own nightstand and begins to thumb through it, happy as you please, as if Harry’s life hasn’t just turned upside-down and inside-out.

Harry slowly lowers himself back down onto the bed as he tries to figure out what the buggering fuck is going on. A quick glance around the room shows him that this isn’t the familiarity of the Gryffindor dorms or the coldness of the St Mungos patient facilities.

This dorm room is bathed in cool greys, soothing browns and the hint of an odd off-white colour Harry deigns to be eggplant. Four beds, including his, lie in a semi-circle surrounding a large circular table piled high with textbooks and other shit that identify a room inhabited by boys, and the door lies just beyond that.

The windows - large, French things - are open, and Harry shudders at the blast of cool, refreshing air that blows in. It can’t be more than January, at least, he surmises. But the question is the year - because Harry has an assumption about where he is, and the thought scares him half to death.

He roots around in his nightstand for something, anything, that will tell him the date, and comes across an enchanted calendar engraved in silver. He whistles, lowly. It must’ve cost a fortune, and it isn’t something Harry would have chosen to pick for himself.

The year is 1999, and Harry promptly closes his mouth to stop a garbled moan of despair from escaping him. He flips the calendar around - it fits into the hollow of his palm, perfectly - and his eyes bulge at the small engravement at the back.

For the most insufferable idiot, Harry Potter. Please learn to keep track of the days better, hm? The current day will glow a disarming green colour, so even a blind mole like you couldn’t miss it.

Merry buggering Christmas, Draco L. Malfoy.

And, sure enough, today’s date - the 12th of January, 1999, is surrounded by what he can only call Slytherin green. And Draco Malfoy had gifted him a calendar for Christmas - one that Harry has absolutely no recollection of.

He resists the urge to close his eyes and weep because, somehow, some bloody how, he’s managed to transport himself into a past that he really does not remember.

Somehow, he’s ended up in an Eight Year he’s pretty sure he politely declined Headmistress McGonagall’s invitation to attend. And the worst part of it all is that he shares his sleeping quarters with two Slytherins and a fucking prat that he’s never liked.

Harry lets out a self-pitying moan, because fuck integrity.

\--

Harry spends most of his day either in the kitchens, out behind the bleaches of the Quidditch pitch and, now, nestled into a back corner of the Hogwarts library. He’s asked around, of course, determined to find out the most he can about this version of an Eight Year no one from his, er, timeline, has ever participated in.

He’s pretty sure he’s scared enough ickle first years by demanding to know everything his year had been up to - to be honest if the Prophet comes out with an article insinuating that Harry’s suffering from PTSD and Post-War madness, he won’t even complain.

Harry slumps into a chair at the back of the library - he hasn’t been to any classes, still unsure about how to proceed with everyone, in case he makes a fool of himself - and the never-ending noise of Hogwarts has been getting on his nerves.

Sure, he’s spent 7 - 8? - years inside these stone walls, building some memories and repairing others, but where he comes from, he hasn’t been inside this castle in a good decade. His life with Ginny has been one of solitude and understanding and mutual frustration at times but...

Oh sweet Merlin, Ginny. Harry groans into the inside of his elbow, narrowly resisting the urge to repeatedly slam his head down onto the grainy wood of the table. His heart rate picks up inside his chest, and a flush begins to creep up the back of his neck. He’s supposed to be getting married tomorrow and now he’s stuck in this shit situation.

A horrifying thought slams into him. What if...what if time in the real world is slowly moving on without him and Malfoy - assuming that Malfoy has somehow travelled with him, too - or worse. What if the future, his future that he’s worked so damn hard to build, has been erased, and they’re both stuck here forever?

He gulps in air and tries to stop himself from hyperventilating and breaking down in the middle of a public space. There’s no point in panicking, after all; he’s been in much worse situations.

(Harry tries to reassure himself that if he’s died and come back to life, he can get out of the past and into his present, easily. Hopefully. God, he’s fucked, isn’t he?)

“Harry, mate, where’ve you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Harry blinks up to find the concerned faces of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger peering down at him with worry. A smile graces his lips as he regards them, relief crashing through his body in a cool wave - his friends are here.

Granted, looking a good decade younger, and Harry hadn’t even noticed that Hermione had had creases on her forehead where he comes from until the absence of them blares in his face, but he doesn’t care because they’re here and they’ll surely know what to do.

Ignoring the weird stares everyone gives him, Harry scrambles to his feet and places both hands on his best friends’ shoulders. Ron looks alarmed, keeps looking over Harry’s head at the other students, telling them with his eyes to mind their own business. Hermione just grasps Harry’s hand and stares intently at him.

“Are you alright, Harry? You look a bit flushed, are you coming down with something?”

He ignores her mothering attitude and focuses on watching them carefully. Should he say something, then, about his future? Or, rather, is it his present? Or… Harry shakes his head and blinks up at Ron. Surely he’d remember the blinding flash of light and then...and then Harry falling, falling...

“Ron, how’s the shop holding up?” He asks through gritted teeth in hopes to hide the mounting fear and hysteria rising through him. “Has it all been sorted?”

Ron exchanges a look with Hermione before he slowly nods. “Yeah, it’s fine, George imported those cornish pixy imitators, the ones I was telling you about before our letters came, remember?”

Yes, yes Harry does remember, and it’s not what he’d meant but whatever. He distinctly remembers him and Ron arguing with Hermione after the pixy news came in, their letters piled on the table of the Burrow. He remembers his firm no, and Ron’s agreement.

But then...at the same time, Harry’s brain flashes images of Hermione persuading them to all come back for one final goodbye to Hogwarts. Images of an article in the Prophet, announcing that all the previous 7th years would be returning to the castle one last time flash before his eyes, there are images of their last boat ride across the Giant Lake, of him glancing across two boats over and catching Malfoy’s eye and smiling.

They had all said yes. Each and every single one of them.

What the bloody buggering fuck?

“Mate? Hey, Harry, are you alright? Do you need to lie down?”

Harry waves Ron’s hands away from his forehead - his hair’s so long it covers his scar nicely, and Harry doesn’t remember the last time he styled his hair this way - and lets out a breath.

“Ron, can you tell me the truth right now?”

Ron blinks, before he nods slowly, apprehension drawn over his features. Harry knows he’s being weird right now, goddammit, but he wants - he needs - to know.

“Do you remember anything before today? Or, well, a few hours ago? Maybe, me and...myself in George’s shop, and then this blinding white light that -”

Ron holds up a hand. “Wait, wait, Harry what the fuck are you on about? Are you sure you’re okay? Is it your scar?”

There are too many question marks in that sentence for Harry to find a suitable answer to any of them, so he resigns himself to the fact that only he - and please, God, Malfoy - can remember what happened.

Where the hell is that bastard when you need him, anyway?

Harry cracks a smile - it’s weak, but it’ll do - and pats Ron’s face. “No, it’s fine. I got you good, didn’t I? Should’ve seen your face.” Harry refuses, point blank refuses, to glance at Hermione. She can take her meddling ideas and stop right there because Harry isn’t having any of it.

Ron, at least, seems happy to let it be because he snorts and bats Harry’s hand away. “Yeah, yeah, what a fucking jokester. Let’s go, dinner’s ready and you’re sitting alone moping in a dusty library.”

A forced chuckle makes its way out of Harry’s mouth before he can stop it, and he gathers up his satchel to follow Ron to the Great Hall. His eyes don’t follow his previous instructions - because apparently the world is against him, today - and they catch Hermione’s gaze.

She stops narrowing her own eyes at him and smiles - unconvincingly - before she steps in beside Ron and they descend into quiet chatter.

\--

“Harry, I haven’t seen your shadow around you, today, what’s up?” Ron asks him when they near the entrance to the Hall.

It’s wide open, with students trailing into it after a long day of lessons, and the sight of it is enough to make Harry feel guilty about bunking off all day, but hey, he needs to recover after apparently transporting back in time to another timeline, okay?

“Ron.” Hermione admonishes, sweeping her brown curls from her face. Her dark skin holds the hint of a flush. “Stop there, right this instant.

Harry shushes Hermione and shakes his head to indicate he doesn’t know what Ron’s on about.

“Malfoy, I mean. Are you and him...are you not mates, then?” The hope in Ron’s voice is what causes Harry to stop walking, and he draws Ron aside, waving Hermione on. This - this sounds like an answer. Even if it’s insignificant, the smallest detail is going to help Harry not go insane right now.

“Um, I mean...what do you mean?”

“It’s just, I haven’t seen you and him in any dark corners, you know? Usually, by now you’re stuck to the hip, joining him at the Slytherin table to promote ‘inter-house unity’ or whatever rubbish Hermione tells me you’re doing with him.”

Harry blinks. So...there’s another him and Malfoy in this world, then? Had he and Malfoy - the real ones, from his world - intercepted their bodies with their minds? This whole situation has his scar burning, and he doesn’t like it.

Suspicion sparks like an ember, bright and ready to erupt into flame.

“Well,” Harry stutters, glancing at his feet and fumbling with his hands. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? He hasn’t seen the git all day and he really needs to know if the bastard can remember, too, because the prospect of being stuck behind by himself is... “Well, Draco is - Christ, well, he’s -”

“- He’s right here, actually. Harry, how nice of you to speak about me to your lesser friend, here. Telling the Weasel how amazing I am, I’m sure.” Malfoy appears in a flurry of extravagant black robes made of velvet.

He moves in beside Harry, tall, blonde and commandeering, lips quirked in an odd smile. Harry’s never seen him smile before, and - darn his observational skills - because Harry notices that Malfoy’s whole face lights up with it. His edges soften, the furrow of his eyebrows disappears and - hold up.

He doesn’t think they’ve ever called each other by their given names unless ‘bleeding’ and then their last names come after it, but…

Merlin, he’s going insane, isn’t he? He’s almost an official fucking nutter. “Sod off, Malfoy.”

Malfoy tuts, and raises an eyebrow. “A word, Potter?”

“Oi, you can’t just make off with my -” Ron’s protests are cut off when Malfoy grabs Harry’s arm and whisks him off to a suspiciously dark corner. Auror instincts kick in and Harry grapples for his wand as he glares at Malfoy.

He rips his arm away from the man’s grip and cradles it to his chest, blinking owlishly at the way his body shudders at the loss of contact - a feeling that he’s never experienced surges up from his toes to meet the crown of his head.

To answer his own question; yes, Harry is going insane.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He blurts out, although Merlin knows why.

He doesn’t care if Malfoy’s been avoiding him or not - right now, he’d rather that Malfoy didn’t exist, but beggars can’t be choosers - all he wants to know is if Malfoy remembers.

Malfoy sneers - and this is an expression Harry knows, and the intense feeling of familiarity washes over him, stronger than when he’d realised who Zabini was, or even that he’d been transported back into Hogwarts.

“Astute observations, Potter, as always. I wasn’t avoiding you, I was looking for answers to our current predicament away from you and your Gryffindor idiocy - one can only take so much stupidity in one’s vicinity.”

Harry scowls at him, but even he knows it’s half-hearted because Malfoy remembers, and that knowledge is so beautiful, so freeing that Harry feels...well, Harry doesn’t know what he feels at this particular moment in time but it doesn’t matter because Malfoy remembers.

They’re from the same place, Malfoy and him, no matter how much of a git the other man is.

But then Malfoy has to just fuck it all up. He runs a hand through silky blonde strands, pushing them back away from his face as he closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his knows as if just breathing near Harry is a task for him.

The elation quickly cools and spreads into annoyance.

“Potter, I will ask you this only once - did you or did you not have anything to do with us being stuck in this shit hole of a past?”

Annoyance flares, sparking the suspicion and rearing into anger. “What the fuck, Malfoy? Why would I have anything to do with this - because of my destined Gryffindor stupidity, is it?”

And Harry means for it to be mocking, but Malfoy nods in exasperation. He blinks his eyes open, intense grey gaze settling on Harry’s face for a split second before closing again.

“Yes, Potter, because if the shoe fits - “

“It doesn’t! Malfoy, the shoe is so far from fitting it’s practically sliding off my foot, goddammit! If anything, I should be the one convicting you of this crime, I could go and tell Robards that - “

“That what, Potter? You’re a fucking cripple who manages to get himself hexed on a bloody stakeout, what the hell would you know about -”

Harry doesn’t care to hesitate - he punches the living daylights out of Malfoy with not even a pinch of regret. He just can’t find it in himself to care that Malfoy’s right, as they sprawl along the ground, biting and kicking and bleeding from both of their noses.


	6. Draco's A Dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, just a compilation of Draco Malfoy freaking out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOO our first reset is coming up! (I need to stop spoiling these chapters) If you have any ideas about what Harry and Draco do while panicking that they're stuck in a time loop, please comment below!

Draco Malfoy is annoyed with life.

Hell, he’s annoyed with every single person that’s ever done him wrong and wow, ding ding ding, you guessed it, Harry bleeding buggering _Potter_ is top of that list.

How can someone be such an idiot to send two people back in time, and then proceed to hit their only other fellow companion in this version of the world? Draco just doesn’t understand. Sighing, he smooths his blonde hair back from his face and blinks up at the harsh lights of the infirmary.

During his years at Hogwarts, he hadn’t visited Madam Pomfrey much - bar the Hippogriff episode Draco would rather not talk about - and he would have been quite happy to keep it that way had it not been for Harry ‘can’t-control-my-hormones-even-though-I’m-almost-30’ Potter.

Speaking of gits, the lumpy figure piled underneath sparse white sheets in the bed next to him moves and uncovers it’s ugly face to the world.

Potter squints at the bright light, the bridge of his nose wrinkling the slightest as his mouth curls distastefully. Draco averts his eyes before he gets caught staring, and marvels at the thought. He’d never once noticed that Potter did that...that insufferable thing with his nose before - so, why now?

Draco doesn’t know, but he suspects Time Travel and magic have something to do with it.

“You’re a fucking prick, Malfoy.” Potter’s words of greeting are so polite, Draco almost snorts. He opens his mouth, a scathing comment ready, sitting on the tip of his tongue, ready to lash out and -

“- A very good morning to you, too, Harry.”

Headmistress McGonagall raises an eyebrow at Potter. Draco wants to squeal with glee - he could almost run up and hug the crazy old bat right now if he had the mind to - but he takes care to set his face into a pale mask of polite indifference as McGonagall purses her lips.

Potter has the good decency to look down at his hands, fumbling with the bed covers and twiddling his thumbs. Draco just leans back in his sitting position and allows the warmth of karma and 7 - 8? - years of pent-up anger roll through him and away.

Ah, revenge is a dish best served cold, as they say. Draco couldn’t agree more.

“You boys should know better than to go roughing and tumbling through Hogwarts. I presumed you knew what you were doing coming back for a repeat year - was I mistaken?”

Feeling very much like he’s back in first year being scolded for the first time in a long time, Draco lowers his own head as a faint blush strokes his cheeks. Well, he isn’t the one who started it, is he? Though, one more glance at McGonagall tells him that that would not in the least bit go unscathed. And anyway, he hadn’t come back for a repeat year.

Not where he comes from.

In the end, Draco shakes his head and mutters a “No, sorry, Headmistress.”

He wants to believe that he just imagined the snort from the bed beside him, and - with immense willpower - stops himself from shooting Potter a glare, instead choosing to look up at McGonagall again.

Her eyes are twinkling, even though Draco’s sure this infirmary hasn’t seen the least speck of daylight in recent years, and just for a moment...Draco feels like she knows. But, then again, their current Headmistress does have the talent Dumbledore showed of just annoyingly knowing everything.

“Detention on Monday after school, boys. It’d do you both some good to remember where you are, and how far you’ve come from the troubled children you once were.”

And just like that, the moment is ruined. McGonagall hums quietly to herself as she eyes them once more before she bids them good day and strides purposefully off to do whatever it is that Headmistresses do to run giant castles full of hormonal teenagers.

Despite his elation at Potter getting battered for cursing in front of McGonagall, Draco’s mood quickly diminishes the more time he spends in a sick room even though his nose is _fine_ and _Madam Pomfrey really needs to stop fussing._

He has detention. With Potter - because of Potter! The world really does hate him, and the feeling is mutual.

Finally, after many check-ups and Pepper-Up Potions, Draco and Potter are allowed to leave. No one has to tell him twice, the moment the words leave Pomfrey’s mouth, Draco grabs his cloak and sweeps off for the day, intent on ignoring Potter for as long as his sanity will let him.

\--

In his world - the world where Draco Malfoy is 27, a cheating scumbag and most definitely not best mates with Harry Potter - Pansy Parkinson is one of his closest friends.

In fact, Draco would even go as far as to say that Pansy is his one and only friend, where he comes from. Or rather, where his consciousness comes from. His body, right now, is 18 and belongs to the Other Draco.

Draco pauses in wonder. Just where it is have the Other Draco and Other Potter have gone to - their world? Do the Others have to pretend to be real Draco and Potter, going to Auror work (Potter) or working the family business? (Draco)

But, anyway. That’s not what he’s talking about. In this version of the world - Salazar, curse Potter and every single one of the Weasley off spawn he’s likely to have - Pansy is an annoying little bitch that just won’t go away.

She’s like a bloodsucking leech - content to latch onto him and drain him of any emotional intelligence.

Draco doesn’t want to have to take drastic measures, because where he comes from he loves Pansy and needs her to practically to survive, but as an 18-year-old plunged back into a castle housing many of her darkest memories, she’s become insufferable.

It only makes Draco more than happy that when he gets home - assuming Potter finally takes his head out of his own arse and starts helping - he won’t have to deal with a whining, snivelling mess.

“But, but Draco! You’re always around him, and you never have enough time for me or even Blaise.”

Blaise pops his head over the Charms textbook Draco’s sure he’s been hiding behind through this whole debate, and scowls at the distressed girl. “Don’t include my name in your shit, Pans. I’ve been good so far, don’t ruin this year for me.”

And he goes back to pretending to study.

Draco wishes he could do that, but unfortunately he’s bored - who knew time travel was such a boring concept? - and the common room for Eight Years is the only place he’s less likely to explode and scream the moment he catches sight of the insufferable bastard that is Potter. Plus, studying just seems like a chore - he’s already done his N.E.W.T.S once with a private tutor.

“Seriously, Draco, look at me.” Pansy shoves her face into his, large eyes soft and pleading. “I miss us, Drake, don’t you?”

At this point, no, he really doesn’t. He misses his Pansy, and this one - with her identical short bob and Slytherin-green nails - makes his heart pound so fiercely for the real thing that a sudden blind rage takes over him.

He explodes, despite his reassurances to himself that he wouldn’t.

“What the fuck do you want, Parkinson? I’m bloody sick and tired of your whining right now and I have not had a good day, waking up to white fucking walls because Harry bloody Potter can’t control his Saviour fists of justice and I don’t need your shit right now!”

Draco pushes her off of him, not even pausing to apologise as she goes sprawling, undignified across the floor. He’s too busy, too caught up in thoughts of Other Draco and his Astoria - the one he’s supposed to be getting married to, to really care. And his Mother!

Circe.

Draco doesn’t even notice Potter lurking by the doorway that leads into the spiralling staircases that swing up into the boy’s dorm on the right, and the girl’s on the left until it’s too late. He reaches out an arm, attempting to barge past the obstacle blocking his path, and ends up pinned against the adjacent wall, only very slightly away from wandering eyes.

If anyone were to fancy an early kip, they’d get an eyeful of Potter being a threat, and Draco being very brave about the whole situation. Not that he’s scared of Potter - even with all his fancy-pants Auror training.

“Let _go_ , Potter. I don’t want to talk right now.”

But, of course, Golden Boy thinks that because he has a slightly misshapen scar, that the world’s rules shall suddenly bend over backwards to please him. He growls, shaking his head which disrupts the precarious balance of his hair, and his curls tumble into his eyes.

Draco clenches his fingers into fists, thrown off-balance by the abnormal want ripping through him, telling him to push Potter’s fringe out of his eyes.

“Malfoy, listen to me! We need to start acting like we’re mates because some random Third Year came up to me with honest-to-Merlin tears in her eyes, asking me why I’ve had a falling out with you.”

The words root Draco to the spot, and he closes his eyes. Salazar, how did he manage to get himself thrust into situations like this, head first without even a small martini to take the sting off? He waits until he’s counted to ten, sure that that’s plenty of time to get ahold of his own fingers before he shrugs away from Potter’s hands.

He tries to sidestep the other boy, but Potter’s grip tightens around his arms, pinning them to the walls.

Draco can’t explain it, but the feeling of being trapped, of being tightly enclosed and trapped...it reminds him of _him_ , and the Manor during his reign.

He snarls, reaching out with his leg to slam his foot into Potter’s knee, and only when the other git is the one against the wall and the both of them are red and hot and panting into each other’s space does he stop and survey the damage he may or may not have caused.

Potter’s hair is more mussed than ever before, leaving Draco with the distinct impression that he looks like he’s just been shagged. Not that that’s a thought Draco usually has, of course. But, anyway. Potter’s face is flushed a pretty rose pink, spread evenly through the undertones of his dark skin. Draco’s never stopped to wonder where Potter is from - not that he cares - but if he’d have to put a guess to it he’d say somewhere like Bangladesh or Pakistan.

Not that he cares.

No. Not at all.

“You were saying?” He says, and for some reason, his voice comes out much quieter than he expected. He suppresses a shudder at the way Potter’s wide eyes round even further, lips pursed and watching Draco like he’s about to attack.

Which... isn’t an entirely untrue statement, if Potter doesn’t hurry up and elaborate his stupid point - the same idiotic point he’d interrupted Draco’s dramatic storm-off to make - Draco may be forced to take action.

“Um - well, I...erm, I was just saying that we should - we should pretend to be mates so that no one else gives us shit about it, you know?”

Draco nods, pretending to be interested while his gaze slips away from the dwindling stubble on Potter’s jawline. He’d never noticed it before, but young Potter has a line of baby fat, just at the base of his shoulders. It isn’t visible to the naked eye, but seeing as Draco is so helpfully pressed up against the other boy…

His head swims. What the fuck is he doing? Cuddling up to Potter like they’re...a sickening lurch curdles Draco’s intestines and he shoves Potter so hard he hears the resounding crack of the back of his head hitting the wall before Draco’s sprinting up the stairs, two at a time, ready to go to sleep and get this day over with.

Who knows, maybe he’ll be able to go home tomorrow.

\--

Draco is woken at some ungodly hour on a Saturday by something that resembles the last, warbling vestiges of a dying cat. The first thing he wants to do is grab his wand and hurl a Reducto at the bathroom door - conveniently placed in a corner beside Blaise’s bed - to get the warbler to shut up.

The first thing he actually does is scratch his balls, shove his long hair out of his face and slip bare-footed onto the floor, ready to take on the yowling troll that has taken residence in their shower.

He pauses. No, that all sounds far too much like Draco’s adjusting to this life, accommodating himself - forgetting his Mother and his Pansy and even, bizarrely, the strange phenomenon that is Astoria Greengrass.

He can’t afford to do that, lest he’ll slowly begin to forget all about those that he loves - they may be one in a million, but they’re his. His to hold, his to comfort, and his Mother is fucking dying, for Salazar’s sake! What if time in the real world moves along with time in this one?

Would Other Draco know how to act around his Mother? Assuming there is another Draco Malfoy whose Mother isn’t already dead, of course.

But, no.

Draco can’t afford to go insane, not now that the warbling alley cat is on a disgusting rendition of I’ll Floo Home For Christmas. Draco’s never much cared for Celestina Warbeck - his Mother had always found the other witch tacky - despite their shared love for Witch Weekly.

Taking a deep breath, Draco swallows down his anxiety and the heady feeling of being where he shouldn’t and tiptoes around the beds of his sleeping roommates.

How any of them can sleep through the surprise concert, he doesn’t know. Draco snorts shakes his head and continues on his way. He opens the door to the bathroom, wand in hand, ready to hex someone’s balls off if they dared so much as try hum in an E sharp.

“Oi, Malfoy, what're you doing here, perving on me?”

The voice startles him, not that Draco shows it, but the odd, jumpy beating of his heart tells the cool facade on his face otherwise. He peeks up by the small opening of the shower curtains, and Zacharia Smith’s Hufflepuff face beams out at him.

Woah, there. Let’s not get carried away, Smith, keep your blindingly bright smiles to yourself, thanks. “Smith? Was that your - erm, singing I heard?”

Draco’s not sure why he’s trying to soften the blow, as he knows he’ll most likely begin to insult the other boy later on, anyway. Maybe it’s just his inner spirit telling him to be kinder - or maybe it’s even Other Draco’s true nature coming out - though, that thought makes him a bit queasy so he disregards it, for now.

He likes the thought that it’s most definitely not the way the water runs from Smith’s hairline, down his face and neck and disappears behind the rest of the shower curtain.

Because, clearly, it’s not that.

“Oh, yeah. My mum sent me the new Celestina album - called _Love, Celestina, xox_. Tacky, I know, but still, it’s rather good. I mean, for her being a witch, that is. My dad always said that wizards make better music. He’s right, you know.”

And then Smith’s dazzling smile dims down, just a bit, enough for Draco to see the huge, underlying prick’s personality hidden inside the glow.

Draco ignores the knowing sounds the voice in his head makes - it sounds entirely too much like Granger for his liking - and rubs his hands over his eyes, suddenly awash with tiredness.

“Whatever, Smith,” He mumbles into his hands as he shuffles back into the dorm room. “Learn to cast a Muffliato - I don’t need my ears bleeding involuntarily in their sleep. Thanks, mate.”

The rest of the day passes by, Draco borrows as many books on Time Travel, Time Turners, Time Hexes and Accidental Magic that he can find in the public section of the Hogwarts library and for a good 5 hours, he spends his time looking for a way out.

He’s not sure what Potter’s doing - so much for becoming friends, right? - and it’s not like he particularly cares, anyway, but it’d be nice...to know that he’s not alone in this. That someone else, the only other person from his home, is just as desperate to go back as he is. Even if that person is a boy and he spent a good 10 minutes pressed up against that other boy, yesterday.

Anyway, now, don’t get Draco wrong, he knows a bad omen when he sees one, and let him tell you now that when he sees Longbottom ambling down the path to the Great Lake, where Draco currently sits, his heart sinks.

Because what the fuck kind of good news is Longbottom going to bring him?

“Malfoy, fancy a drink at the Leaky?”

Sorry. Sorry, what? Draco blinks, peering at Longbottom’s chiselled face - darn puberty hit the bumbling idiot ten times over and not Draco like it was supposed to - for any sign of this being a public hoax.

Perhaps if he searches, he’ll find those small Muggle film cameras nestled in between the branches of the trees, ready to stream him onto the telly box with the moving pictures.

“Sorry, ‘Bottom ol’ friend, ol’ pal, but are you completely mad? Or has only part of your brain existed your head?” Draco snorts. “Who’d want to visit anywhere, anytime with you?”

Draco supposes that in about a month’s time, he’ll look back at this moment and realise that he really should have seen the beginning of the end, right there. You know, the moment that Longbottom’s face crumples as if he’d been delicately holding himself together all the while he’d been asking Draco to...well.

Longbottom twists his lips, and a slow, terrible hatred bleeds into his eyes. “I told Harry you hadn’t changed, not one fucking bit! You’re a dirty, rotten liar, Draco Malfoy.”

He scurries off, shoulders rounded with his head bent down and hands shoved into his pockets.

As Draco watches him go, all he can wonder is whether or not Potter had said yes to the Leaky. And whether or not that would have made a difference to his own answer.


	7. And So It Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The drama is coming...can you tell?

At first, Harry still has his eyes closed when he feels the tight sensation pressing against his body, arms pinned to the side and his movement restricted.

Then, as the deja vu lifts his chin and pries his eyes open, Harry wakes up to dark brown eyes and a terrifyingly disarming smirk. He instinctively shoves his attacker off the bed while simultaneously reaching over to the nightstand for his wand.

“Ow, what the fuck, Potter?” The attacker’s voice rings through the blurry haze of Harry’s sleep-ridden mind, and he rubs his eyes, gingerly peering over the side of his bed.

Blaise Zabini glares up at him, spread out on the floor in what looks like a supremely uncomfortable position. Harry blinks. Something about this whole interaction seems...familiar, to him. Like he’s already lived through it once.

Harry shakes the thought from his mind.

“What day is it?” He asks, scrubbing a hand through his dark curls. His head feels completely clear, despite the amount of firewhiskey he’d let Neville shove into his face yesterday, and Harry’s glad that he did, despite all his protests.

Back in his own reality - the one where Harry Potter is a harangued 27-year-old man marked from spell damage - he doesn’t get around to seeing Neville, much. The other man has taken to teaching Herbology at Hogwarts, accompanied by his wife, Luna, and their very eccentric child, Rolph.

Harry shifts in bed. Now that he thinks about it, maybe he’d just never bothered to find out what happened to his brave classmate after he’d shoved himself so wholeheartedly into Auror training.

The scowl on Zabini’s face clears as he flashes Harry the smile that he’s become accustomed to - the one that makes you stop your own breathing for a second, just to prioritise hearing his over yours.

“You always ask that on Thursdays, even though you should know it’s a Thursday, Potter. That’s why I’ve taken to sitting on your chest these mornings, so you remember. It’s nearly 7, so I suggest having a shower, by the way.”

Zabini snatches a magazine from his nightstand and begins to thumb through it, happy as you please, as if Harry’s life hasn’t just turned upside-down and inside-out.

A sense of dread fills Harry’s pores, prying him open and latching onto the seed of doubt and fear in his mind. No, it couldn’t be...it’s supposed to be Sunday! Harry’s supposed to enjoy being 18 again, with hardly anything to worry over other than avoiding Ginny and the awkwardness that comes with talking to her past self when he’s had sex with her adult body.

Harry’s supposed to grab a broom today and soar through the clear blue skies - because God dammit there are no classes on a Sunday and no one in their right mind wakes up at 7 on a weekend.

So, Harry surmises that Zabini must be wrong - he has to be. He sneaks a glance at his roommate's Quidditch Weekly and furrows his eyebrows. “Why’re you reading the same issue twice?” He asks.

“No idea what you’re on about, Potter. This is the first time I’ve even touched this, Pansy claimed dibs on it before me.” Zabini glances up at Harry, then, through thick lashes and smiles coyly. “Would you like to join me, Oh Great One? Let me tell you, there’s this amazing spread on page 15 where O’Malley’s dick is just -”

Harry claps his hands over his ears, a garbled “No, it’s okay, thanks,” on his lips as he stumbles out of bed. He shoves his glasses over his eyes and grabs his toiletries as he practically leaps into the adjacent bathroom, trying his very hardest to ignore the startling cackle Zabini exhales.

It’s not like Harry’s a homophobe or anything - Charlie Weasley is very much indeed gay and Harry didn’t so much as bat an eyelash at the older man when he’d come out - but when other people try and relate anything remotely homosexual to him?

Then, and only then, does Harry shy away from it. And he doesn’t know why, but he just does.

“Please, please, Circe, no.” He’s snapped out of his quiet freak-out by a sight that transports him back to Myrtle’s bathroom, watching blonde hair soak through a gushing fountain of blood.

Malfoy stands hunched over the sink of the boy’s bathroom, his head bent pitifully over the basin, his hair dangling into his eyes and probably obscuring the vision his tears don’t already block.

Harry’s surprised to note that Malfoy’s filled out from the lanky, skinny boy he knew when growing up - the git’s shoulders are wide, but not hulkingly so, and his torso tapers down to a slim waist before elongating into endless legs that strike a sweat on Harry’s brow.

He surreptitiously wipes the bead away, wondering if he should mention to McGonagall to turn the internal Warming Charms down a bit.

“Er - Malfoy?” Harry’s not sure what he’s supposed to say - what does one say when confronting their ex-rival during what is clearly a breakdown?

Not that Harry can blame him - he feels like he’s getting crazier with every passing minute that he’s stuck in the wrong past, having to pretend to Hermione to know what projects she’s talking about they discussed 2 months ago, or having to pretend to analyse plays from matches he never watched with Ron.

Malfoy starts, clearly having been taken unawares, and he glances over his shoulder at Harry.

For a moment, Harry’s sure the blonde is about to gather himself to his full height, insult the size of Harry’s left earlobe or something idiotic like that, and continue on his merry way without a word for the rest of Thurs- no, Sunday.

“Potter, please, I beg you - tell me it’s not Thursday.”

Harry shifts his weight uneasily to one foot, hands clasped in front of him and fondling his bag full of shower gel and shaving cream. He bites his lip, unsure what to do with himself because Draco Malfoy just said please, and Harry doesn’t think he’s ever heard 6 letters sound so sweet to his ears.

“Um, it’s not Thursday?” Harry tries, reaching a hand to scratch the back of his head. “I don’t know, Malfoy. Zabini woke me up by suffocating me to death again, like he did the first day we came here and...oh shit, I forgot the calendar!”

Yes, how could he have skipped over such a monumental detail? Instead of standing here lamenting over the last time he’d caught Malfoy looking dejected in a bathroom, or how the word please sounds from his mouth, he should be getting the calendar!

The real, absolutely - not at all weirdly - appropriately gifted calendar.

Malfoy squints at him, an expression of exasperation taking over his face. “Potter, explain, please? And this time in English, the good Queen’s language, if you’d be so kind.”

There’s that word again. Imagine - 7 years of never hearing that word and suddenly hearing it twice in the span of moments. Harry blinks, and wonders if it’s his messed up hormones - conflicting with this 18-year-old body and his own full-grown hormonal system - that’s making him seem like he’s actually a mental patient.

“You, well, the other you, gave the other me a calendar for Christmas because apparently, I’m always forgetting the day. It glows green on the date, day and year of whatever day you’re on.”

For a moment, Malfoy is silent, seizing Harry up and probably measuring the likelihood that he’s being lied to. Harry can’t blame him, he’d do the same thing in his position. Harry flinches involuntarily - he’s associating himself to a Malfoy, of all people, like suddenly they’re best fucking mates.

It’s the influence of their other’s bodies, the ones that are almost always joined at the hip. Harry shudders at the thought.

“- Potter, quit daydreaming, you useless cow slug and go find me that calendar!”

Malfoy’s eyes glow a brilliant silver in the dim lighting of the bathroom. Harry vaguely wonders why they haven’t flicked on a Lumos, yet, but instead of asking Malfoy - and most likely getting hexed for his troubles - Harry sets his toiletry bag on the bathroom counter and sprints back into the dorm room.

The calendar, even after three full days of inspecting it, still baffles Harry. It must have taken such exquisite charm work for it to come about, carefully placed spells and thoughtful ideas. Perhaps if Malfoy wasn’t such a lazy sod, he could’ve made a fine Curse Breaker.

Assuming that he was the one to do the gruelling work of making it, that is. Harry snorts, a tiny smirk pulling at his lips as his hands grasp the cool, silvery metal texture of the calendar and he makes his way back to Malfoy. He doubts it - the thing was probably more expensive than all of the Eight Years’ wands combined.

Malfoy snatches the timepiece from Harry’s hand the moment he steps onto nondescript grey tiles, his eyes narrowed introspectively. Harry’s not sure what the git’s looking for, but he seems to find it when he raises his head, nods once at Harry, and hands him the calendar.

“I didn’t want to look at the face,” Malfoy bites out. His hands clench into white fists, bulging with green veins. “You can do it if you’re so bloody eager for it to be Sunday.”

Harry just shrugs, not thrown off-kilter by the change in mood. He’s dealt with enough Ginny on her period to last him a good lifetime, thrice over. “Whatever you say, Malfoy. You’re clearly the boss, here.”

Ignoring Malfoy’s concealed look of outrage - now, that’s a look Harry’s quite acquainted with - Harry gingerly picks up the calendar. He doesn’t say it, but he hadn’t stopped to look at the face of the thing, either, in case it spells out his worst fears in a disgustingly vibrant Slytherin green.

If everything else goes to pot, Harry thinks grimly, at least Malfoy’ll get to watch his potential waste away on a lump of metal. Even Harry would be blind to see that Malfoy’s a perfectly capable wizard - if only he hadn't used those capabilities to fuck up everyone else’s lives.

Harry turns the calendar’s face towards him and his heart stops. “It’s...Malfoy, why’s it flickering?”

Malfoy turns back to Harry and away from the mirror he'd been inspecting - or the being on the other side, Harry muses - and steps gingerly towards him. “Potter, how would I know? If that’s what you’re focused on instead what day it is, then you’re absolutely mental.”

He scowls, drawing his pointed face into harsh lines. “The day, Potter. Tell us what day it is.”

Harry doesn’t want to. He takes a step back, calendar clutched to his chest. But it’s not a question of whether he wants to or not - this could be a major clue as to what they’ve gotten themselves into, and Harry can’t hide that.

No matter how much it makes him want to throw up. “It’s...Malfoy.” Harry glances at the opposite wall behind Malfoy’s tense shoulders. “It’s Thursday.”

\--

Harry has never trusted Draco Malfoy in all his 27 years of life - let it be said right now. The git is far too slippery, able to slide out of even the worst offence by widening his eyes and pleading some rubbish or another.

So, naturally, Harry doesn’t believe him when he says that he had nothing to do with the...well, whatever it is that is happening to them. Malfoy’s a wanker, therefore he is lying, simple as, nothing more to it than that.

The noise in the Great Hall soars over him, filling his ears to the brim, but Harry barely registers it as he shoves a segment of orange into his mouth. He’s well aware of the stares that half the table are giving him, silently asking each other what’s up with him, and yet he doesn’t care.

It’s not their bloody business, is it?

Harry hates the subtle speed that his heart pumps - only just that bit faster than before - hates the way his breathing is harder, now, and his palms are sweaty. His Auror trained brain tells him that all these are signs of mild anxiety, more closely resembling fear.

He doesn’t like to think about it, so he gulps down a breath of pumpkin juice and slides his eyes over to the Slytherin table. Malfoy sits on the edge of his table, a bored look coating his features as he says something to Zabini beside him.

“ - and honestly, Harry, are you alright?”

Everything in here is new, much to Harry’s relief. Maybe the calendar had been faulty - and Zabini had most likely been mistaken. He doesn’t remember going through any of this…

But then again, he’d spent the last Thursday anywhere but near other people.

Now that he’s gotten a good bearing for the place, Harry’s able to try and remember how his 18-year-old self reacted and thought and acted. He can put on a good show, almost pretend to not be almost a decade older than all his classmates.

“Harry, mate, snap out of it.”

Fingers appear in front of his face, and he bats them away, looking up into two pairs of concerned eyes. Ron frowns at him, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth, while Hermione’s book on Ancient Runes has been forgotten on the table as she stares at Harry.

“What?” He shakes his head, trying to clear the vast fog covering his mind. “Sorry, just worried about the Transfiguration test on Monday.”

Hermione’s worried expression instantly changes into one of shock. “We do not have a test,” she glances at Ron, who shrugs. “Professor Silvermist would’ve said!”

Oh. Right. Their new professor had told them on Friday’s class...the thought makes Harry’s brain race. He shrugs, gulps another fist of pumpkin juice before he grabs his bag and excuses himself from the table.

He’ll see them soon enough, and he’s used to not being around them for days at a time, where he comes from. So Harry makes his way to his double Potions class because this time he’ll go through the day normally, and see if there’s anything that they’ve missed.

Maybe something in these three days is keeping them back, and all Harry has to do is find it and everything will fix itself.

Yes. He’s sure of it. And, the first order of business is to try and remember everything and anything that had happened in the days leading up to their time travel. Also, to accuse Malfoy of anything and everything.

Harry slinks into Potions just as it begins, and almost groans out loud when her realises the only free seat is next to Malfoy, git extraordinaire. He resists the urge to slam his head against the desk as he throws his back down by the stool’s feet and slumps into his chair.

Malfoy doesn’t say a word, only continues to finger his swan feather quill. That suits Harry just fine.

Slughorn assigns them all some rather complicated potion that includes Flobberworm slime and the tip of a Hungarian Horntail horn. Harry works around Malfoy, struggling and battling with his own Potion. He’s gotten better over the years, Auror training having forced him to improve, but he isn’t the best.  
Loathe as he is to admit it, he isn’t Malfoy, not when it comes to the delicate arts and crafts of Potions.

“I know you had something to do with this, Potter.” Malfoy hisses underneath his breath as he reaches across Harry’s bench to grab some salamander eyes. “This has your stupid face written all over it.”

Harry blinks, not missing a beat as he drops in the rest of the purified water. His cauldron bubbles and the lavender mixture swirls to a stop. It’s supposed to be lilac, but Harry concedes that it’s close enough.

“Malfoy just shut the fuck up. I can’t remember everything exactly but I remember you touching me -”

“Eh, sorry, but you touched me, you -” Malfoy stabs his salamander eyes with the tip of his knife.

“As if! All I know is that I was flung into a bright white light with no recollection of how I even got here and it’s all your fault because you and your idiotic pranks always backfire -”

Harry knows his red now, from furiously whispering instead of the intense heat.

“Yes, when I was twelve, Potty! I remember leaving that alleyway only to be hexed, all because you couldn’t -”

A book slams down onto the middle of their desks, and both Harry and Malfoy jump. They glance up at Professor Slughorn, his eyes twinkling with something Harry can’t quite place. His ample gut presses into their tables, almost knocking Harry’s cauldron down.

“Boys, boys. You should know better than to start unnecessary arguments in the middle of class - I expected more from you, Harry, my boy.”

That is to say, Harry gets another detention with Malfoy, though he’s not sure if McGonagall will remember the one they’re supposed to attend on Monday. Provided that Monday actually comes. Harry shoves the thought out of his mind and focuses on bottling his Potion and starting the second one.

He has far too many things to think about, and it’s only the first class.


	8. Liquid Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco - well, Blaise - has an idea. And Potter interrupts him mid-wanking.

Friday, much like the last time, is uneventful for Draco. He goes to class, he eats his food, and he dodges Pansy’s half-hearted attempts at reconciliation. He’s heard all of her petty whinings before, so he isn’t really up for another rendition.

Now that Saturday is coming to a close - he, again, dodged Longbottom’s request to join the crew, much to the buffoon’s anger - Draco can’t help but wonder what he and Potter have gotten themselves into.

It’s obvious that they’ve either been hexed or that they somehow accidentally triggered something less than fully legal in that monstrous Weasley joke shop, which just so happened to transport them back. The only tricky thing is, figuring out how it managed to send them back to a false past, and conduct a Time Loop while it was at it.

A sigh escapes Draco’s lips, he slams shut the numerous books he’s had to re-borrow from the library and shoves them off the edge of his bed. If his calculations are correct, they’ll be gone by morning, and he’ll be left with nothing but an empty feeling in his chest and a wild Potter to deal with.

Draco draws the curtains around his bed, bidding Zacharias good night. Apparently, even Blaise had gone galavanting off with the Gryffindorks on their adventures at the pub. Something that the Blaise in his timeline, a successful business owner, would never have thought to do.

Not that Draco actually talks to Blaise, where he comes from. It’s depressing, really. He’s made so much more time for women he’s likely to never meet again - except in the case of Lavender - than he’s made for his former friends and his fianceé.

Hey, look, Draco’s never claimed to actually like himself, so he’d really appreciate if you’d get off his back now, thanks.

He strips from his robes and sets them at the foot of the bed before curling himself into a small fetal position. It’s odd, seeing his younger body for the first time in years. He’s leaner - not that his older self is fat, but still - and Draco can actually see the faint whispers of the never-quite-healed Sectumsempra scars.

He shudders into the night, pulling the duvet closer to him as the shadows spur behind his closed eyelids. They watch him, careful and quiet, as he ignores the whirring of his mind. After a few minutes, despite the rising blackness and the edge of anxiety that now layers his actions, Draco realises that he’s bored out of his wits.

He’s not going to sleep any time soon, by the looks of it.

It’s been ages since he’s last had a good wank, hasn’t it? And Draco, really, is a young, virile man who has all this extra tension built up from this whole Time Travel business.

Spurred on by the thought of pure ecstasy, Draco’s long fingers trace the waistband of his boxers, the heels of his palm digging heavily into either side of his stirring prick. He mouths a wandless Silencing Charm, panting slightly as he squeezes his eyes shut.

He splays one hand against his tip, letting out a hot sigh at the tingles it spreads through him. Draco teases out precome through the fabric of his pants, and a soft, shattered moan escapes his lips.

He’ll just...Draco’ll just think about blonde hair and big tits, wide, feminine eyes looking into his while she -

Oh. No, no that doesn’t feel quite right. How could it not feel right? Draco groans, fingers curling into tight fists. It isn’t difficult, just think of a good-looking bird and call it a day - that’s all there is to it.

But this version of his body refuses to cooperate. Merlin and Morgana, both, this is what his life has come to. A niggling thought, faint, so distant it’s an echo along a passing breeze, crosses the back of his mind.

Perhaps Other Draco has not yet been informed that present Draco likes girls - that he has to like girls - because, quite frankly, there’s no other way about it.

Shame, a blinding, wrenching bout of utter shame, rushes through him, and Draco squeezes his eyes again. Salazar, he’s a fucking muppet. Nothing has even happened yet and already his emotions are surging beyond his control.

It reminds him of being eighteen again, and that...that is one of the most frightening thoughts he’s ever had. Draco’s cock has wilted, some, but a few more well-timed strokes bring it back to half-fullness again.

Draco tries, now - ignoring the imperial voice that sounds oddly like his father telling him that he’s a sick fuck - but this time he imagines short, tangled hair and a flat plane of hard chest muscles.

His breath quickens, and Draco tilts his hips up to the sky, dragging down his boxers and greedily licking his palm before tugging at his prick. He thinks of a hot mouth on his, stubble catching on his smooth jaw, a cock rutting against his thigh.

He doesn’t stop to think about the implications of what this means - by morning he’ll force himself to forget about it and never speak of it to anyone.

Draco cries out, a broken sound, as a wave of pure lust and hatred and desperation builds, so potent it threatens to take his breath away. He’s so close, he can feel it, feel it in the itch along the back of his prick, the tightening of his balls. If he only twists his palm just so, and bucks his hips, he can -

The hangings around his bed fly open. A body lands on him, heavy and reeking of sweat and poorly-cleaned pubs.

Draco screeches - which, he will concede, isn’t the manliest of responses - but he doesn't care because there’s a fucking attacker in his bed. Draco grapples for his wand, a hex on his lips as he struggles to detain the madman.

“Oi, Malfoy, gerroff meh! Don’ ou know ou I am?” The madman wriggles, clearly drunk off his rocker, and Draco leaps away. “I’m Harry Pisser! No - no, I mean, I’m Harry Patter - argh!”

Draco slaps Potter in the side of the head because Salazar he needs time and space to think before he explodes. This is worse than being interrupted mid-wank to be slaughtered - he’s been interrupted mid-wank to be annoyed by Potter, of all people.

Who knew that Harry bleeding Potter would appear in his bed, abnormally heavy, flailing his limb all over the place and generally just making a mess of things. Draco scrambles back until his arse hits the headboard, drawing his knees up and tugging the blanket closer to him.

Potter finally stops moving, and slowly sits up, yawning without covering his mouth. Draco wrinkles his nose at the smell of stale firewhiskey. He doesn’t remember this happening last Saturday, so what in the bloody blazes had Potter done this time around?

“Potter, tell me what you’re doing in my bed, you absolute turnip,” Draco says, scowling at his new bedmate.

His pulse has calmed down, some, but he’s still more than aware that he’s sitting stark naked in front of the Saviour, only a thin sheet between privacy and Draco showing all his bits to the outside world.

He curses the day Potter was born.

“Sorry, din’ know ou were...er, wankin’, was it? Wanted to talk - I remember things, ou bastard!”

Potter’s speech is the slur of a drunk idiot, and Draco suppresses the urge to slam his fist into the git’s speccy eyes. His mouth twists unpleasantly.   
“I suggest you fuck off, Potter,” he says. Draco reaches out with one pale toe and pokes Potter’s jean-clad thigh. “Seriously, come back in the morning. Or cast a Sobering Charm, I don’t care.”

Except that isn’t really true, is it?

Draco does care, he cares enough that he hasn’t immediately hexed the balls off of Potter for having the audacity to interrupt him mid-wank. Speaking of, he still can’t decide whether to feel relieved or disappointed at that.

All Draco had wanted to do was wank himself raw, and now he can’t go ahead with his plans because almighty Saint Potter has decided to take a detour stop at his bed. Draco closes his eyes and counts his breathing, all the way up to ten.

Why do these things always happen to him?

When he opens his eyes again, Potter’s sitting stationary and sober at the foot of Draco’s bed, thank Circe. His eyes have lost their wild edge, but even in the dorm bathed in the nighttime glow, Draco can see the brilliant glint of bright emeralds.

“Erm, honestly, Malfoy, I really am sorry. I - ah, fuck it, I really couldn’t take it anymore.” Potter scratches the back of his head, grimacing. “I had to pretend like we all hadn’t just had the same conversation last time, and I don’t like lying to my friends, I hate going through what I’ve already done and…”

Potter trails off, and in the darkness, his eyes glow that vibrant green. Draco looks away. This whole ordeal feels oddly intimate, now, with Potter in full control of his actions and talking about his feelings to Draco.

Potter must have missed some reserves of alcohol somewhere in his system, he thinks, because there’s no other way he would wholeheartedly agree to talk to Draco about these things. The blond pushes his hair back from his face and nods once.

“Right, then. You said you remember things?”

Potter shrugs, his intent gaze still on the top half of Draco’s flushed body. He bites his lip. “I remember a ball of light, and then me in St Mungo's for a few days. Then there’s when I met you in Diagon, and a few hours later in Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes -”

Oh. Draco knows where this is going - Potter’s going to blame him, isn’t he? He’s going to be so sure that Draco had somehow got something to do with it because of course, why wouldn’t the Death Eater jump at a chance to immobilize the great Chosen One, Auror Extraordinaire?

The only thing that doesn’t make sense is why Draco would send himself back in time, as well.

“Whatever, Potter. “Draco hisses, his cold voice shattering the warm balance the night had caused. “If anything, it was you that caused this. Bet you’d just jump at the chance to send a Death Eater back to a time where no one has to deal with him, right?”

Potter blinks. “Sorry, what? Malfoy, no, that doesn’t even make sense - how can you even say that?”

“What, so it’s alright for you to blame me, but not for me to blame you, yeah? You’re a fucking hypocrite, Harry Potter.”

And Draco doesn't know why he says it, but he thinks it must have something to do with the pure fear trundling through him. He’s tired, more so than he’s been in a long time, and nerves have gotten the better of him.

He doesn't like repeating days, doesn’t like the thought of his Mother going on without him, or worse, with another Draco, an imposter from a different era.

Potter shakes his head slowly, disbelief painted along his face.

“You know, what, Malfoy? You can fuck off because that’s the last time I’ll bother to try and get along with you.”

With that, Potter stomps off, crashing through the room until he slumps onto his own bed.

Draco doesn’t fall asleep that night, and when 7 am comes, he’s transported underneath the sheets, clothed in pyjamas. It’s a disconcerting feeling, one that throws him off balance and off-kilter, has him clutching at his bits to make sure they’re still there.

Draco’s starting to hate Thursdays.

\--

As the day goes on, Draco realises that it doesn’t actually matter what he does, he might go through consequences during the 3 days, but at the end of it, Thursday will always come.

And that’s a thought that terrifies him. He’s sure there’ll come a time - assuming he and Potter will be stuck here again if Draco doesn’t find a way to fix this during this reset - that he’ll be ecstatic to know that he can act however he wants without permanent consequences.

It’ll be liberating, then. But, for now, he’s terrified, because of course, Potter had somehow managed this, the overly-powerful git.

“What’s the best way to make, say, for example, some really, really good happen to you?” Draco tries to ask Blaise casually over supper.

He’s not looking at the Italian, of course, his eyes are somewhere focused on Potter, watching the other boy ignore him with all his might. Which, to be fair, is quite a lot. Draco’s spent all day in the library between classes - because why not get an education while he’s at it - and the oddest part of it was meeting Granger there.

Granger and Other Draco have struck up quite a rapport, which Draco himself was quite appropriately dismayed to know. And, because he’d rather not rip up time and space itself, Draco had to go along with it, for the sake of the universe.

To his utter, and total expectancy, it had been boring as fuck.

Blaise stops eating his french toast mid-chew, glancing once up at Draco before averting his eyes to the pouting Pansy in front of them. That girl will just not let up, and ordinarily, Draco might have been impressed by her tenacity.

When that tenacity is directed at him, though. That’s when he has problems with it.

“Whatever you’re planning to do, Draco, don’t.” Blaise nods to himself, speaking so quietly Draco has to lean in closer to hear him. “But I’d say Felix Felicis is your best bet.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. Blaise shrugs. “What? You would’ve pestered it out of me, anyway, might as well do away with the degrading show and just tell you now. Your detention will be all the reward I need.”

Right. How had Draco forgotten? He’s in Slytherin House - it’s been far too long since he could say those words with bright clarity - it must have slipped his mind the way his fellow classmates work. Or, at the very least, how Blaise Zabini works.

Downing the rest of his tea and grabbing his satchel, Draco squeezes Blaise’s arm in thanks, feeling just that odd bit smug that this whole saving himself from the past thing - and somehow, Potter - is a fucking piece of cake.

He makes his way down to the basement, where the Potions supply closet is, locked and warded against students have not been given special permission, either during class times or outside, for projects, and the like. Draco knows him, or if he remembers correctly, recalls hearing a rumour that Slughorn keeps all his lucky potions under a neat little spell in the corner of the closet.

A smirk finds its way onto the blonde’s lips; ah, just like taking a chocolate frog from a baby. He rounds a corner, and yes, there’s the closet, doused in old wood and chipped from so many years of use.

Draco readies his wand, glancing around him to make sure that no unsuspecting student will harbour across him, and nods firmly to himself.

“Malfoy, I knew you were up to something.”

Of bloody course. Why wouldn’t it be Harry Potter, crouching under something shimmery and slippery looking - is that an invisibility cloak? Draco groans at the injustices in the world - Potter sits by the door that may hold the key to their escape. Draco presses the heel of his left palm over his eyes and exhales.

Circe, just for once, please, he’d like a day without Harry bleeding Potter coming in to ruin all his well-made plans. Seriously, first the Wank Incident - as Draco likes to call it in his head - and now this.

Can’t he get a fucking break, for once?

“Potter, what the fuck is it that you want? I’m trying to get us out of here, which is more than I can say that you’re trying to do.” Draco sneers, more out of habit than of true spite, honestly.

He’s too tired for that - he fears he might be coming down with something. He prays it’s not deadly - the thought of dying in a past that never existed blackens his thoughts until they’re nothing but ink-stained parchment against this other thoughts.

So he pushes that away - Draco’s getting quite good at ignoring his problems, really.

Potter stands up, and for the first time, Draco is struck by how much the other has grown from the scrawny, knobbly boy they all once knew to a strong, lithe bloke with too much eyebrow to be healthy. Yes, Potter is still knobbly, but his thighs and calves are stronger, his shoulders have broadened, and his eyes…

Well, they were always that exact, disgustingly earnest shade of green, weren’t they? Draco should know, Circe knows he’s spent enough hours of his life wasted on glaring into them, looking for even the tiniest weakness as an opening he could lash into.

Pushing pack his glasses onto the bridge of his nose, Potter frowns, squinting at him. Instinctively, Draco shifts his weight and crosses his arms across his chest, ready to make himself smaller if needs be. He’ll fight, when he needs to, Draco will fight, but not now.

Not this reset, please. Preferably not in any of the other ones, either.

“How are you helping, then?” Potter asks, gesturing to the door beside him. “By pilfering our Potions Professor’s ingredients, is it? Ace plan, Malfoy.”

Draco scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“A little liquid luck, Potter, honestly. Keep up, would you?”

Potter’s eyes widen, just the tiniest fractions, any normal person would have missed it, but Draco Malfoy has spent 7 years watching the other boy like a hawk - he isn’t going to stop now.

He’ll gloat to his heart’s fucking content, because, for once, he’s one step ahead of the Chosen One.

Draco ignores the voice in his mind telling him that he hadn’t thought of a solution that simple, either until Blaise had told him out of obligation. Details, details - irrelevant things, really.

“Right,” Potter murmurs under his breath as he opens the door to the supply closet with a flick of his wand. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Draco promptly ignores the blatant show of power and slips in through the thin space between Potter’s side - soft, yet hard and unyielding against Draco’s front - and the doorway. He daren’t glance behind him, in case Potter lands a hex that’ll send him reeling.

Something bright and cheerful flutters in his chest, light and weightless, ready to cart Draco off into the land of rainbows and unicorns. Circe only knows where it came from - it certainly wasn’t Potter that brought it about.

He dampens down the hope with a clenched mental fist, gritting his teeth against the feeling.

The supply closet is dark, dank, and totally not what Draco remembers it to be life. Slughorn’s fucking turned the place into an unorganised mess; the bat wings are chilling with the bases, while the acidic liquids were with exploding Erumpent Horns.

It’s all wrong, wrong, wrong. Severus had had such a beautiful system, aligned according to strength, common usability and even size! It had been beautiful, an exquisite thing of balance and order to behold - and then came bumbling the fat bastard that is Professor Slughorn, and things just went downhill from there.

“Relax, Malfoy, Jesus. Where does Slughorn keep his stash, then?” Potter’s hand reaches out to still Draco’s, the one that’s been tapping against his right thigh, trembling hard enough to shake his whole arm.

Potter is warm, it’s the first thing that Draco notices. He’s so very warm, warmer than he has any right to be if Draco is being honest with himself. The blonde doesn’t remember a time in which his own hands haven't been either freezing or slightly cool, in all of his 27 - 18? - years of life. This world’s version of Draco seems to be the same.

Potter taps the back of his hand twice, and Draco, somehow, inexplicably, is able to understand what that ominous, absolutely stupid gesture means.

You’re alright, Malfoy. Breathe.

For a moment, Draco allows himself to bask in the warmth of his ex-rival, before Potter’s magic seeps from his wand and into the air, disrupting the peace and bringing Draco back to his senses. He snatches his hand away, well aware that he looks like he’s accidentally put it way too close to burning coal embers, alight and flickering in a hearth fire, and cradles it to his chest.

His eyes struggle to adjust to the utter pitch-black of the room. But the light from the corridor spilling in make it easier for both of them to see, and over there, by a full, untouched tub of Flubber Worm slime, the air shimmers, shifts and bends and weaves slightly.

Sometimes it completely baffles Draco how on Earth McGonagall could have kept Slughorn as an actual Professor, teaching real children a supremely important subject they may need for any profession they wish to proceed in. The man thinks he’s smarter than he is, and so very clearly underestimates his students.

“Here, can you -”

Draco glances at Potter to see the other man waiting patiently by the large tub, wand already out and his lips pursed in concentration. Draco focuses his gaze on Potter’s wand.

“What is it, Potty? Use your words, you turnip.” Not his best insult, but he’s said it before and he’ll say it again - he’s tired.

Potter shakes his head, as though he’s far too above Draco to deal with petty fighting and bickering that’s been their thing for the longest time now, the only sense of comfort Draco has in this strange place.

Did he really just call his and Potter’s rivalry ‘their thing?” He must be more tired than he thought.

“Malfoy, I’ll need you to cast a Shield Charm - don’t give me that look. Just stand right there and cast a good one.”

Draco, despite loathing being told what to do, does as told, and moves to stand beside Potter. He flicks his wand, casting a double-strength Shield Charm - he’s not showing off, and if anyone tries to say otherwise, they are a liar.

He eyes the tub warily. “What’re you going to do, Potter?” Knowing the Gryffindor, his plan includes blowing up the Flobberworm tub and allowing the goo to splatter all over them and the other ingredients.

But, hey, at least they’ll grab the luck potion, right?

“Don’t worry your balding blond hair about it, Malfoy.” Potter snickers, casting a quick series of charms - using the bloody injured arm.

It’s a testament to Draco’s self--control when he just ignores the barb and shoots his hand forward to stop Potter’s ministrations. “What are you doing?” Draco hisses. “That arm should not be doing magic!”

Potter sneers at Draco, most likely to disguise the dark flush covering his face. Both Draco and Harry glance down at the point where dark and light, pure and slightly-sort-of-evil intersect - the bare skin of Potter’s arm and Draco’s fingers half-hidden beneath a thick long sleeve turtleneck.

“Fuck off, Malfoy.” Potter shoves Draco’s hand away and resumes his casting. Draco grabs the distinct feeling of being hurt and shoves it back her throat.

After a terse while, the air fills with a buzzing sound, accompanied by the distinct hissing of something burning. Draco doesn’t dare flinch, in case his Shield Charm is the only thing keeping the both of them from going kaboom.

Finally, after 2 more minutes of nerve-wracking holding a charm that Draco starts to regret he chose - it requires a great deal of endurance - Potter releases the breath stuck behind his teeth and releases his shoulders. He gestures for Draco to drop the Charm, and when he does, Potter shoves the tub out of the way and reaches in blindly.

“Potter, you clearly have a death wish, how can you just go and reach into an unknown dark corner that probably holds nothing more than a few cob-” Draco’s voice trails off.

A small, glinting object comes flying at him, and Seeker reflexes Draco hadn’t felt in a good few years overtake him, forcing him to snatch the vial out of the air. He glances at the contents - despite the difficult lighting, the one that seems to swallow up every semblance of light from the outside world, it’s unmistakable what the liquid inside it is.

Potter stands up a wry smirk on his lips. “You were saying, Malfoy?”


	9. Felix Felicis

Harry squints at the gleaming liquid sloshing around inside the vial and holds it up to the evening light streaming in through the window of an old classroom - it's one that nobody uses anymore.

He’d dragged Malfoy up here to watch him drink the _Felix Felicis_ \- “because, Potter, if one of us is going to be poisoned from a potion that’s been left in a mank old box, it should be you” - but now that he’s actually standing in front of it, he’s dithering.

“But, how will we know if it’s worked or not?” He asks, frowning at the residue of shimmering gold the potion leaves on the glass.

Even though Harry’s turned away from him, he hears the exact moment Malfoy rolls his eyes. “When galleons start falling from the sky for you, Potter, honestly. I’m pretty fucking sure you’ll know -”

“No,” Harry interrupts, waving a dismissive hand. “I mean, like, how will we know how to get home with it?”

Malfoy is silent for a few moments, and Harry imagines him closing his eyes and counting. Sure enough, right on the cue of ten, Malfoy lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I don’t know, Potty, do you have any better ideas?”

“I mean - well, no.”

“Well, there you go, then. Chop chop, we haven’t got all day.”

Harry turns around at that, shooting Malfoy a scowl. The blonde doesn’t reply, just blinks innocently, arms stretched behind his head and his legs out in front of him. Harry’s mouth goes dry - since when did Malfoy start to look so _regal_ just lounging about like a lazy sod?

By the second day of the second reset, Harry’s begun to notice that Malfoy’s neck is abnormally long. Like, unbelievably. It’s straight for a bit before it dips and spreads out into the curve of his collarbones, and a bit further on are his shoulder blades.

He’s had a lot of time to stare, Harry has. Doesn’t mean he’s proud of any of it.

“Hello? Earth to Potter? Drink the buggering thing any time today, if you will.” Malfoy drawls, flicking an eyebrow up at Harry. Harry flips the other boy the bird and uncorks the vial, before downing a quarter of the sweet tasting potion.

He enjoys the indigenous squawk sound Malfoy makes, resembling one of his beloved albino peacocks quite beautifully, actually, and stoppers the bottle, setting it on the window sill.

“What?” He asks. Harry frowns again. “Is it working, yet? I’ve only ever used this stuff once and - hey, look! A galleon!”

He rushes to pick up the coin and catches five more glinting up at him from underneath the table. Well, perhaps he’d gone a bit overboard, after all.

“Potter, if you get a girl today please refrain from bringing her into our dorms when I’m trying to sleep,” Malfoy mutters, rubbing his large hands over his face. “Well, Chosen Lucky One, lead us the fuck out of here.”

Harry really doesn’t like Malfoy’s tone, and despite the niggling doubt biting at the back of his mind, the potion encourages him to be oddly optimistic. Like he knows something good is going to happen today - he can feel it. Harry doesn’t dare try to wipe the grin off his face as he grabs Malfoy’s hand - such long fingers, Merlin - and skips out of the classroom with a snarling Slytherin in tow.

For the most part, the corridors are empty, but when the potion navigator in his head steers Harry in the direction of the courtyard, he prays it’s leading him the right way.

The first person the duo meet is some 7th year with large doe eyes and short, curling black hair. She smiles at Harry and hands him a slim folder.

“Hey, Harry, here’s that Herbology homework you wanted, signed in your name, all ready for Monday’s lesson.”

Malfoy snorts, and Harry’s all too aware that he’s holding the git’s hands. He’s holding Draco Malfoy’s hand - his soft, pale, cool hand that stops Harry’s hands from overheating. Harry tries to calm down his erratic breathing, tries to focus on the positivity flowing through his veins.

“Thanks, Mindy,” Harry shoots her a grin, taking the homework he hadn’t asked for. Or, at least, he thinks he didn’t. Perhaps his other self had had different ideas.

“Yes, yes, kindest regards. C’mon, Potter, you can’t flirt all day - a man must rest, you know.”

Malfoy pulls him away from the 7th year, a scowl etched onto his regal features. Harry follows along, his heart rate speeding up at the strength of Malfoy’s hand grasping his. He doesn’t follow the implications of that emotion, just stomps on it until it goes away, leaving him empty and confused.

Then the potion kicks in again, and he almost stumbles over a small Hufflepuff, can’t be more than a first year, with soft blue eyes wide and rounded with hope.

“Mr Harry Potter, sir? Can I please polish your broom for you? I’ll even wax the handle and trim the bristles if you’d like - all for free!”

Something squeezes i Harry’s chest - accepting free homework is one thing, but taking advantage of an 11-year-old kid seems like something...well, something Malfoy would do. A scowl tries to split Harry’s face, but the potion keeps a firm hold of Harry’s features, rearranging them into a positive, gracious smile.

But before he can open his mouth and reply to - Christian, he thinks his name is - Malfoy steps in front of him, tall and lithe, a picture of absolute power. Is it just him, or is today particularly dry? His throat sort of itches - like he needs water.

“Do you not have something better to do with your time than fawn over some 18-year-old who’s too old to even be in school?” Malfoy shifts his weight, his hand moving in Harry’s palm with him. ”Run a-fucking-long, Puffy - Potter and I have more important things to be doing that don’t include snivelling first-years.”

Christian’s face wobbles, and to see that expression of just a kid reminds Harry so fiercely of his own childhood, he gets a horrible feeling of deja vu - he imagines Malfoy as Dudley. Only, there’d be a lot more of Malfoy beating Christian up, if the blonde was anything like...well, the other blonde.

Harry steps up to give the Hufflepuff a hug, but Christian pouts, arms crossed in front of his chest. He strides away, head of frazzled brown hair marking him until he disappears around a corner. The sun peeks out from behind a few wispy clouds of pink and orange. It winks.

“What’d you do that for?” Harry hisses.

Despite his fear - fear for how his life is going on while he’s stuck in this time loop - his positivity due to the potion, and his annoyance at Malfoy, he can’t seem to let the other boy’s hand go.

Malfoy scoffs. “Potter, I did not go through the ordeal of witnessing Slughorn’s ‘arranging’ in its natural habitat for you to glean free broom care from unsuspecting first years. I’m a hero, really.”

Harry clenches his hands, trying to curl them into fists to relieve the tension building ina vein at the side of his neck, and Malfoy yelps, snatching his hand from Harry’s.

Oh, wow, would you look at that, have the floors always been that particular shade of stone?

Heat floods to the flesh underneath his skin, and Harry’s hands are burning, once more. Just like always - due to magical instability, his Healer had said. Would his Healer notice that he and his Other self had switched?

Actually, now that he thinks about it, there’s literally no proof that that’s what had happened. There’s virtually no proof of anything at all.

Harry glances up at Malfoy, a sort of odd fluttery feeling in his chest - he hopes to catch the faint whisper of Malfoy’s blush, blotchy red mess and all. It’s fascinating, like seeing a rare, elegant flower grow thorns every once in a while.

But Malfoy’s gone - nowhere to be seen. Harry huffs, waving away a stray first year offering to tie the laces of his runners. Somehow, despite the glinting of galleons winking at him everywhere, and the promise of someone else polishing his broomstick, Harry can’t help but feel like he hasn’t actually been that lucky, after all.

\--

“Harry, did you take a _Felix_?”

Harry glances up from his Astronomy textbook. Luna Lovegood smiles down at him dreamily, her dirty blonde hair piled on her head in an elaborate bun far too fancy for school, but somehow, it suits her. Her rose gold sunglasses gleam, despite the dimness of the eight-year common room, and despite the fact she stands with her back to the fire, facing Harry on his post on the couch.

He shrugs, confused. “Yeah, earlier on. Why?”

Luna shakes her head, causing the separate braided strands to jangle together because of the litter of beads and feathers in her hair. “I suddenly feel the need to give you my spare pair of Spectraspecs, just for more luck, that’s all.”

Sometimes, Luna amazes Harry, and other times - like now - she’s just an anomaly. Not to mention she somehow got into the eighth year common room while being in Ginny’s class.

Also, this is the first time she’s come up to him after the...well, it’s the first time, anyway, and Harry wonders what he and Malfoy have changed. Obviously, taking the Felix.

Does that mean that they can change the past, and if they trigger the right frequency, they can get out? Suddenly, Harry wants to find Malfoy and tell him his theory, and also tell him that he’s spent all day looking through books in the library with the potion running through his veins and he’s not found anything.

He has a few theories about that - trained Auror, remember?

“Harry? My, the Nargles have already begun to feast on your brain - are you sure you don’t need my specs?”

Luna sets a hand on Harry’s arm, effectively grounding the Gryffindor in the here and now. Harry smiles, slow and hazy.

“Yeah, sorry. It’s fine, I don’t need them - I think I’ll just take a nap, or go to bed altogether.”

He bids her goodnight, making the vow to seek her out and change something, anything to distract from the mundanity of his classes. Not that Harry had gone to any today - he has things to do, like search high and low for Malfoy.

“Draco is up in your dorm, by the way.” Luna nods conspiratorially, tapping the side of her nose. She swishes out of the common room in a whirl of lilac and indigo blue checkered robes.

Up in the dorm - where, indeed Malfoy is in, with the curtains drawn around his bed next to Harry’s - Harry flings an arm across his eyes and heaves out a heavy sigh.

Malfoy says nothing.

Harry sighs again, heavier this time, letting his throat growl out the last few notes. He bounces a bit on his bed, for the extra creaking of the springs. The cold silence that had probably settled in here before he'd come in lies shattered in fragmented pieces across the floor of the dorm.

Malfoy shifts behind his curtains.

Harry opens his mouth to sigh once again when the hangings fly open and Malfoy’s scowling face pops out.

“Potter,” he hisses darkly, deep and promising. Harry sits up, eyes stuck on the pools of silver that are Malfoy’s eyes. Wait… “Potter, listen to me when I’m reprimanding you, you imbecile!”

“Geez, alright. Keep your hair on, Malfoy.”

The blonde narrows his eyes, and Harry holds his hands up in a placating gesture.

“I assume you’ve found nothing, considering you didn’t even try to look for me to tell me any good news.”

Harry splutters. “I did look for you! You just weren’t in any of the places I went to.”

Granted, Harry did skirt around the idea of class, and spent most of his free time down by the lake, breathing in the cool air and watching the Giant Squid play with the lapping waves. Aso, he’d deliberately left his map in his trunk, the one at the end of his bed, but still.

“Save it, Potter,” Malfoy rubs his eyes, and Harry only now notices how wrecked Malfoy looks. There are dark circles under his eyes, mottled purple and far too big to be healthy. Shit, is Malfoy getting sick, or something?

“Are you feeling okay, Malfoy? I can get Pomfrey for you if you’d like.”

Because, as Harry is really only just realising now, he does care about what happens to Malfoy. The git is the only other person here that won’t look at him like he’s crazy when he talks about time travel and alternate...alternate universes!

There’s an idea brewing, Harry can feel it. He just needs a little more time to formulate it together - Godric knows they have enough of the stuff, now.

Malfoy scowls. “I don’t need your pity, Potter.” Then his facial expression defrosts the slightest degree. “Seriously, leave it be. Did you seriously find nothing useful all day, even with the potion?”

Harry shrugs, placing his feet on the floor. “I found plenty of useful things, just none of them relating to our current issue. Did you know that we all see colours differently?”

Silence.

Harry glances up at Malfoy and pauses. The bloody git is smiling at him - a full, uncensored smile straight from the depth of his - admittedly - deep down soul.

It’s the first time that smile has been directed at Harry, and it’s odd - it feels like it#s a gift, but really, it’s only a smile.

Only a smile.

“I need to sleep, Potter.” Malfoy’s face shutters closed once more. “Night.”

Harry can only nod dumbly back. He is in so much trouble, it’s not even funny.


	10. Truce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry calls a truce, Draco doesn't mind. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've had to lower the goal to 40k, because 50k just wasn't working out, y'all. But, I'm really glad some of you are still here on this really long as frick journey. Just 7 more days to go! I can do this - I think. The fic will NOT be done at 40,000 words, more like 50k to 55k, but feel free to share it with all you know!
> 
> As always, don't forget to leave a kudos and bookmark for updates! Thank you guys so much for the feedback and support, I love you all <3
> 
> Ness

The next day comes, Draco and Potter drift through it like zombies. Draco attends Transfiguration lessons for the first time, and they’re learning how to transfigure something or other into a more complex version of itself. Bending shapes and altering the configuration of matter into something better - simple things, easy things Draco’s done since he was 19.

Circe, that sounds weird.

He gets it on his first try - and on his second, then his third. Potter is abysmal at it, not surprisingly. He flicks his wand and the potted plant, instead of growing into a detailed strawberry bush, disintegrates.

Weasley...well, Weasley's attempt tries to erupt into flames, but lights his own fiery red hair up, instead. Granger gets it on her 5th try, and she sends glares at Draco all the way from her side of the classroom like she’ll be able to see the Dark Magic she’s sure he uses to assist him through her half-closed eyes.

Draco just flashes her a smirk and a wink, much to the annoyance of the Weasel.

Saturday comes, Draco dodges Pansy and spends most of his day with Potter - a repulsive activity, really - trying to look at their situation in different ways. At this point, Draco’s become accustomed to the constant terse shoulders he carries with him, and the crease between his eyebrows is almost permanently etched into his forehead.

He’s getting used to the fear that he’ll never go home again. That he won’t get to hold his mother again.

That she’ll die without Draco there to say goodbye, without him there to wish her luck in the underworld.

But, anyway.

Saturday goes, Draco declines Longbottom’s offer, but it takes him a few moments, rather than the defiant ease in which he had said no before. Pansy is still a fucking annoyance, and Draco doesn’t see much of Blaise.

Which is good, just the way he likes it.

People are far too difficult for him to deal with, sometimes.

Finally, Thursday comes, again, and Draco and Potter start from scratch.

Potter sends Blaise crashing off the bed, but unlike the other two times, he doesn’t peer over to make sure it’s not anyone entirely dangerous that’s attacking him. Instead, the other boy shoots Draco a wry glance, one that Draco responds to with a sneer.

It’s instinct, but it’ll do the job. Draco takes a deep breath and climbs out of bed - it’s a new dawn, as they say, a new day.

“Malfoy,” Potter calls from underneath his covers. “C’mere.”

Blaise snorts from his perch on the floor, scrambling to his feet and shooting Potter a scowl. “Are you feeling alright, Potter? Usually, you’re asking me what day it is, pestering me for the time and such, not asking Malfoy to come over.”

The Italien pauses. “Actually, scratch that, continue on, gentlemen. Perhaps this’ll be an improvement - a man can only live around sexual tension for so long before he wants to Crucio himself.”

Draco winces, a gag stuck in his throat. He doesn’t need to look at Potter to sense the absolute horror on his face - and perhaps it’s for the best that he doesn’t look.

“Fuck off, Zabini,” Draco mutters when he finally finds his voice.

He tugs the sleeves of his nightshirt over his hands and stalks to Potter’s side. Blaise shrugs at the both of them, flopping onto his bed - fully dressed and ready to go - a Quidditch Weekly in hand. Nothing different, apart from the conversation, of course.

But Smith is still gone, to where Salazar only knows. Potter glances up at Draco from underneath a messy fringe of dark curls, an awkward grimace on his lips.

“I, er,” his eyes dart nervously to Blaise’s fairly innocent form, but Draco’s spent enough time over these same three days analysing each and every member of Slytherin house, all over again. He knows when his fellow classmates are listening in - so he casts a Muffliato around both him and Potter, before leaning against a bedpost, feigning boredom with the conversation.

“Right, thanks. I was thinking...since we’re obviously no closer to figuring out how to escape this, would you like to take a break?”

Draco must make some horrified expression because Potter scrambles on, rushing to hurdle over the fences of caution Draco’s sure doesn't exist in Potter’s mind.

“I mean - well, I haven’t had a proper fly in ages and this body isn’t a man nearing 30, so…”

A smirk licks at Draco’s mouth, and he huffs an ever-suffering sigh. “Are you...asking me out to fly with you, Potter?”

The thought isn’t so nearly as repulsive as he might have imagined, once. Draco frowns internally - Circe, he really needs to get away from Potter, and quick. Yet, despite that thought, Draco still agrees, albeit not after a shit load of teasing the boy with the green eyes.

They get dressed, Draco in a large sweater, despite the mildly warm temperature, and Potter in his Muggle graphic t-shirt and jeans. As they walk down the corridor and outside onto the front steps, Draco pushes his fine blonde hair out of his face, all too aware of how odd it is, being with Potter, on the way to fly a Seeker’s game.

The air is sweet with the scent of honeysuckle and dew that’s been there since their very first day in the past, and the sun peeks out from behind a cloud. Draco breathes deeply, willing his jittery nerves to calm themselves down.

Because, quite frankly, it’s only Potter, who, in and of himself, is nothing to hoot about - despite him killing old Voldy No-Nose, but Draco doesn’t really count that, really.

“I really don’t want to fight anymore,” Potter says as they make their way across the fields to the broom shed that houses brooms not as good as his or Potter’s but are made for a fair game overall.

They’ll do.

Draco sneaks a look at Potter, all bare, tan arms and bouncing curls. He glances away, shame curling the tips of his fingers inwards.

“Yeah?” He says, noncommittally.

Potter nods. “Yeah. I think that that way, we’ll get a lot more done, once we’ve had our fun and the novelty of being in a time loop where we can do anything has worn off. I’ll help you research properly, this time, right beside you. No more antagonism.”

Silence settles over them as they each choose a broom, mount the dusty old things and launch themselves up in the air. Neither of them apologises for the deeply laid mistrust and suspicion they had treated the other with, but Draco thinks that’s okay because it’s sort of how they are. It's how they've always been - apologising would take near the whole evening, to really cover everything.

But then, for a moment, Draco forgets about Potter.

He forgets about pissy Potter and his righteousness, his Auror-made good thinking, and Potter’s this and Potter’s that - he forgets all about the defensive man encased in a boy’s body, his wand arm crippled and magic-damaged.

His hair streams out behind him; the wind is exhilarating, pulling at his face and his wide, wide smile. He hasn’t flown in so long - Draco lets out a whoop of excitement as he and Potter delve into the arcane practice of the school team’s Quidditch drills.

For the first time since even before the time loop, Draco feels elation and hope bubble up in his gut. Or, perhaps it’s his stomach telling him he hasn’t eaten since yesterday - or, since Sunday. Which is technically the future.

Draco shakes his head to dislodge the unwelcome thoughts.

“Truce, Malfoy?” Potter yells, zooming past and releasing the Snitch.

Draco puts on a burst of speed to level Potter’s and tosses the prat a grin. “Yeah, truce, Potter.”

Truth is, Draco may not show it, but he’s tired of the fighting, too. He just wants to work on getting out so he can see his mother and...and perhaps apologise to Astoria, but he’s still a bit undecided about that. He really has no excuse for what he’s treated her like, these past few months.

Maybe this truce will be good for them.

\--

After the Seeker’s game - no matter how hard Draco tries, his hair just will not stay away from his eyes after the treacherous wind - Potter drags Draco to the kitchens to get some grub, seeing as they missed breakfast and Draco is starving.

He doesn’t really want to think about all the classes he’s missing, but everything in them would just be the same, anyways. They’d still be doing advanced transfiguration, still college-level Charms. Finnegan would blow up his Hangover potion, Blaise would be such an odd man and almost strip naked to avoid the heat, and Granger would try and talk to him out of some pity she feels like she owes him...

Draco’d rather not, thank you very much.

“Potter, what is this?” Draco demands, confronted with a portrait of a very serious-looking pear. “Is this a joke, or -”

Potter shakes his head, an odd smile on his lips. It’s the sort of smile Potter only reserves for his friends, his real ones, not his ex-enemy that he’s called a truce with because they’re the only other person-from-the-future, here.

And Draco’s not quite sure why he cares, to be honest.

“Tickle the pear,” Potter says stupidly, which is a feat because almost everything that comes out of the git’s mouth is doused in some form of stupidity.

Draco blinks, a pale eyebrow raised. Potter snorts.

“No, that is not a euphemism. Go one, tick the pear, right on its side, it’s quite sensitive there, actually.”

Draco does as asked before Potter can go on about the pear’s ‘sensitivity to being tickled’ some more. He doesn’t even bother to pretend to be surprised when a passageway opens to the chamber of the Hogwarts kitchens.

He only walks through the cobbled entrance, finds a free chair holed up around a circular oak table and slides gracefully down into it.

Trust Potter to know everything and anything about a massive castle like Hogwarts.

A house elf Apparates and their part of the kitchen, bowing so low their long ears almost scrape the ground. Draco is struck by how familiar the little elf looks, even though he really can’t see much of its face or outfit.

“Harry Potter and...and visiting Master Draco - Dinky is at service, today. What may the sirs require?”

Draco jolts in his seat, almost knocking his long legs into the stands of the roundtable. His head whips up, mouth hung open in the most undignified of manners.

“Dinky?”

The house elf bows again, and this time Draco notices the arched, bony shoulders and the particular set of ears the elf has. It’s Dinky alright, the same Dinky that’s supposed to be at the Manor, helping his mother just get out of bed and piss in the mornings.

“What’re you doing here, Dinky? Why aren’t you with mother, at the manor?” He asks, acutely aware of Potter glancing back and forth between him and the elf.

He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the sight of Dinky’s bright turquoise dress shirt until he sees it, a reminder of the first time that Draco’d gone to a Muggle pub and he’d had...but not with...yeah. Safe to say, Draco hates seeing it every time he calls on Dinky, back at home, but it’s endurable.

It has to be, because the elf likes it so much - adores the colour. It’s much better on Dinky than leaving it in his closet to grow like a virus, spreading blackness of shame and desperation, leaving its cloying scent on all of his other clothes.

“Master Draco, DInky is not so sure where Dinky is being right now, but Dinky is trying his best to continue on. Master Draco will understand when he returns home.”

Draco jolts at a tap on his hand. He looks up at Potter, lips pursed.

“Malfoy,” Potter isn’t even looking at him, which Draco finds quite a bit more than rude. His eyes are focused on Dinky. “Malfoy, does that mean what I think it does..?”

Draco blinks, trying to tear himself from his stupor - Potter touched him - and regards Dinky again. The elf’s dark eyes glitter in the warm tone lights of the kitchen, and suddenly, it dawns on him.

“Dinky,” Draco says slowly like he’s trying to calm a distressed Kneazle. “Dinky, are you from...are you from the future, as well?”

Salazar, it only ever sounds idiotic and a bit prattish when he says it out loud, doesn’t it? The ‘future’, indeed. What is this, a set of a really shit Muggle movie? But, no matter, because Potter nods his head, and Dinky smiles his odd, house elf smile at them.

“Sirs may call upon Dinky when they is needing help. Dinky must go and prepare dinner, now.”

With one last long, searching look at both of them, Dinky snaps his fingers, before Apparating away. Draco stares dumbly at the towering stack of sandwiches Dinky conjured in front of them.

“I thought you couldn’t conjure food,” Potter mumbles, already reaching over to take one.

Draco huffs. “Yes, well, you can’t. I’m sure the ancient, arcane magic of house elves do not bow to such a hindrance.”

“I used to want to be a house elf, I thought they were so cool,” Potter says happily around a large bite of his peanut butter sandwich.

And Draco knows what kind of sandwich it is because the uncultured swine chews with his mouth opening and closing a mile a minute. He shudders, folding a napkin - he always keeps one in the back pocket of his jeans - across his lap before carefully selecting a cucumber sandwich - one of his favourites, back at home.

It’s rather nice, in a way, to have this small comfort.

“Potter, I honestly worry about your mental state more than I worry about mine,” _or my Mother’s_ , he adds silently.

“Aw, does Malfoy-snookums worry about little old me?”

Draco snorts, the absurdity of the situation really bearing down on him. “Fuck off and eat your sandwich like a bulldozer flattens terrain, Potter.”

Potter stops chewing. “How do you know what a bulldozer is?”

Oh, right. Shit. Despite their ever-growing proximity - Draco can almost 50% say that Potter did not advertently cause the time loop and time travel incident - Draco’s somehow managed to forget that with a truce comes the exchange of basic thoughts and feelings, to at least give the illusion of friend...wait, no, hold on.

Who said they want to be friends with overly-excited, bright-eyed Gryffindorks?

Not Draco, that’s for sure.

He opts for a shrug. “I had to learn to...adapt to my circumstances after the...after the noseless crazed fool decided to try his hand at besting the great Harry Potter. Anyway, I learned a lot of stuff about Muggles, and it’s all quite interesting.”

Nobody says anything, for a while. Draco busies himself with tying up a loose thread on the sleeve of his jumper.

Potter clears his throat, and one glance at him tells Draco that Potter’s regarding him with new eyes like he’s never seen a blonde, wickedly handsome man before. Draco smirks to himself at his own compliment - damn, he’s good.

“That’s twice now, that you’ve - er, done that,” Potter comments, pushing the plate of sandwiches to Draco, who gladly accepts one last cucumber - much to the wrinkle of Potter’s nose, which he does _not_ find endearing - before leaving the plate alone.

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Done what?”

“Bad mouthed, um, Voldemort like that. You did it once, before, I think.” Potter mumbles, a sheepish expression taking over his face.

No, Draco does not remember the first time, but he’ll take it. “I like doing it, makes me feel less afraid.”

Potter nods. “I wish my friends were like that. Not just here, but even back at home, too. Ron still shudders when I say it and it’s been ages since the war.”

“Some people are like that, Potter,” Draco leans back in his chair, half drowning in the memories that flood over him. “You can’t rush these things - just make them aware of what they’re doing and let them sort it out at their own pace.”

“When did you go ahead and grow up on me, Malfoy?” Potter asks, and Draco doesn’t know why a blush flushes his own pale skin, other than the poorly-concealed awe in Potter’s voice.

Draco raises one shoulder in the imitation of a shrug. He’s tired, aching all over and still stinking of sweat from the field - but he’s okay. He really is. They’ll figure out a way to beat this fucking thing - he’s sure of it.

He’s just not sure why the Felix Felicis refused to give them anything to go on. There must be a reason...


	11. Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco likes this side of Potter - a little too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hi!  
> I'm back, as you can see. I had to stop posting because exams were fucking over my time to do other things xD Just so you know, I won April Camp NaNoWriMo at 40k words and I'm proud af. Obviously, the fic is nowhere near done, but still. Hopefully you enjoy this part, and thank you so much for reading!

“Potter?” Draco calls from his bed, curtains drawn around him.

It’s Friday, and Draco’s body aches all over, reminding him of his first ever Quidditch practise in 2nd Year. He smiles ruefully to himself; that had been about the same time he’d realised it would be a shit ton of work, being on the team. Not even the sum of all the Malfoy vaults in the world could’ve changed that.

“Yes?” Potter answers, his voice muffled and strained like he’s stuffed a pillow over his head.

Potter, the hooligan and bad influence, had lured Draco away from classes all day in favour of sneaking around the school. They’d grabbed ice-cream from Dinky and lounged about the Great Lake until lunch time came, when they had crawled into bed, already exhausted.

“Potter, I think I want to go to Muggle London, on Saturday.” Draco flicks his wrist, flinging open the hangings around him. He feels a bit silly talking to a closed-off bed, so Draco draws the curtains back from around Potter, too.

The Gryffindor’s hair is a mess as if a bird has taken permanent residence in the inky curls, but then again, when does it not? Potter yawns blearily, a faint smile on his lips as he looks at Draco.

Draco places a hand on his stomach - it’s doing that weird thing again. The strange, fluttering feeling that he’s half sure Malfoy’s do not feel, let alone for Potters.

“Yeah,” Potter concedes, drawing Draco’s attention back to him. “That’ll be good. Let’s get proper sloshed, and everything.”

If there’s anything that is Draco is not, it is good with alcohol. Pitiful for a pureblood of his pedigree, but then again, he can’t find it in himself to care.

“Can’t say no to a good time,” Draco tilts the corners of his lips up.

Potter’s eyes flash brightly in the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the window, and Draco is reminded of the glint of light off of a Snitch in the air.

And yet, no matter how hard Draco tries to push the implications of his darker thoughts away and focus on Potter’s eyes, they always find a way to resurface to the foreground. Draco doesn’t know if, when they eventually do return home - because they have to, they’re Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, wizards extraordinaire - if Potter will abandon him the first chance he gets. Thus, leaving Draco friendless once more.

He’s actually pathetic, it’s not even funny.

“Malfoy?” Potter calls, hands resting on his stomach. His t-shirt has ridden up, and Draco catches the barest glimpse of a tan stretch of skin. It feels almost as if he can’t look away, not for a while, not until he’s looked his fill.

He stops himself, and closes his eyes, breathing through his mouth for a bit. “Yeah?” He hums.

“Are we actually...you know, sort of friends, or whatever? Like, this is real, right? I have to keep telling myself this isn’t one of your many, admittedly idiotic, schemes to foil the great Harry Potter.”

Draco glances up at Potter, having half the mind to derail on a tangent and talk about perfect Potty and his need to always judge him, but Draco’s mouth goes dry. Potter’s face is so fucking earnest and open and bordering on trusting, that he can’t really find it in himself to fabricate the cold words he would have if Potter had been all sneers and hard eyes.

“No,” he says, instead, truthfully. “It’s odd, sure, and it’s not what I’m used to, Potter, but it isn’t because I’m lonely, or whatever the fuck you’ve gotten it into your head that I am. We haven’t even talked about our world much. I have no idea what the fuck you’ve got going on, over there.”

Well, apart from appearing in the newspapers after getting...wait. The thought escapes him, like a breath of fresh air in the summer. It’s like the memory of...something is waiting there, on the edge of his brain.

Draco’s magic crackles wildly in that second, lashing out at the hidden blank spot in his mind, trying to pry it open at the hinges to reveal it’s dark secrets. Perhaps it’s something that will save them, something that will bring them home.

Potter sits up, a concerned expression on his face. “Are you alright, Malfoy?”

Draco blinks, rearing in the flailing tendrils of magic around him and rubs a hand over his face.

“Yeah, he says. “Yeah, sorry. It’s nothing, what were you saying, again?”

The concern doesn’t leave Potter’s face, but he leaves it be, to which Draco is grudgingly thankful for.

“Right, I was saying, that I’m supposed to be getting married - to Ginny. Tomorrow. Or, at least, the tomorrow of the day we got transported here.”

Now that was news to Draco.

Despite Astoria’s obsession with the Man-Wonder, she’d never once mentioned that Potter wasn’t already married to his surrogate family’s daughter and, subsequently, his mother’s look-a-like.

“That’s really strange,” Draco murmurs, turning to face Potter completely.

It only takes him a split second to make the decision - so he only has that second to think about all the things his Mind Healer would have to say about his choice of action. That is, the old bint would have a field day trying to decipher them. Draco slinks out of bed, ignoring the cool air on his mostly-exposed skin as he crosses the few strides it takes to get to Potter’s.

But then he loses his nerve, the doubts come flooding in, and he stops.

Merlin and Morgana both, Draco doesn’t actually know what force drove him out of his own comfortable, high-thread-count bed to come stand before Potter like some sort of eager slave.

Potter looks like he’s not too sure why Draco’s chosen to come over, either, which is an entirely reasonable thought, so Draco supposes that he can’t blame the boy.

“What’s strange about it?” Potter asks, eventually.

Without a word about it, he shifts back on the bed, creating the perfect-sized shape for a person of Draco’s height and stature to slide in without too much difficulty. He pats it invitingly, and for just a moment, Draco’s reminded of Lavender and her eagerness to get him into bed.

He pushes that thought away because obviously Lavender and Potter have no correspondence, such as the fact that Potter is most definitely not...not like that. He’s with a reasonable - if not poor and mannerless - enough girl, and that’s good. It is, in fact, very good.

Draco climbs into the bed, pulling the covers around him and shifting a bit to find the most comfortable position to loll about in. He settles for being on his side, facing Potter, his right hand in the neutral area between both of their bodies.

Despite the distance he’d tried to give Potter, Draco can still feel the other’s body heat rolling off him in waves, along with the faint wisp of magic that Draco knows is Potter’s. It’s an earthy, woodsy smell, the smell of Quidditch leathers and freshly cut grass.

Circe, he’s in so much fucking trouble if he’s busy ascertaining the smell of Potter’s magic.

“You’re marrying the Weaslette the same day I’m marrying ‘Tori.” Draco says, mildly, with as little contempt as he can mask when he acknowledges the female Weasel’s existence.

Potter taps him on the knuckles. “Don’t call her that.” He squints up at Draco, but there’s a smile on his lips, again. Draco counts that as - Draco: 1 Weaslette: 0. “What else have you got to go back for, other than Astoria?”

“I’m due another article for the Quibbler in a few days,” Draco says, absently. He’s only aware of what he’s said when Potter blinks up at him with wide eyes. “I mean, er…”

“No, it’s okay, you don’t have to go into any more detail, Malfoy. So, it’s you that’s been writing those articles Hermione’s always raving on about?” Potter uses his hands to talk a lot, Draco realises after he almost gets hit with a stray limb. “I swear she’s your biggest fan, mate. I think she’s memorised quotes from all of them, it’s a bit creepy, to be honest.”

Mate.

It’s pathetic, honestly, how one word makes the beating of Draco’s heart speed up just a bit, and he hates it. He hates feeling this way, unsure about anything, disgusted and ashamed of himself, with the way he’s chosen to live his life back in the real world.

But Potter, well, Draco’s only known this Potter - this sneer-less, almost sort of happy, Potter - for a day or two. He won’t - he can’t - tell the specked git anything.

“I like it,” Draco says, instead. “Writing is therapeutic - and I like getting my political views out there.”

Potter regards him with searching eyes, and Draco shudders as he remembers that Potter’s a fully trained Auror, ready to detect lies and deceit from a mile away. Good thing he isn’t lying, then. Just...omitting a bit of the whole reason why he likes to write those articles.

“You’re very good,” Potter smiles at him. “I never thought I’d see the day a Malfoy change their stripes.”

Draco snorts, shifting his legs. He accidentally brushes against Potter’s warm toes, and stops another shudder, just in time. Potter doesn’t even blink, waiting for Draco to get on with his answer.

Feeling like he’s fourteen all over again, Draco clears his throat. “Oh, haha, very funny, Potter. Do you remember what happened to us? Every time I try to reach for it, it just happens to...slip away, you know?”  
Potter nods. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” Draco doesn’t know if it’s subconscious, or not, but Potter shifts closer to him until the scent of his magic is a constant around them. Potter’s toes trail up Draco’s calf, and - to his complete and utter horror - a weird thrill of pleasure rips through him.

Draco gasps, launching himself back, and away from Potter. The other man just blinks, eyelids already closing, as if to go to sleep.

What the fuck is the prat playing at?

“I liked talking to you, Malfoy.” Potter yawns, adjusting himself until he’s spread out on his stomach, arms tucked under his chin. “You’re not half bad.”

Another thrill careens through Draco, but this time it’s not sexual pleasure. It’s more of a... subtle wave. The kind of thrill you get when you’re complimented on something.

The kind of thrill that makes Draco slink out from underneath Potter’s duvet, nose clogged with Potter’s scent, and his heart heavy with confusion.

\--

Saturday arrives, and bright and early, Smith is in the bathroom, singing like a dying Kneazle. Draco isn’t even bothered, unlike all the other resets, where he’s gone in, blushing a little less each time, telling Smith to shut the fuck up.

He just goes back to bed, until Potter comes to wake him up at 1 pm - why does he still feel so tired? - to get dressed for a wander around London. Yesterday, Potter’s poncy friends had come a-knocking on their chamber door, demanding to see their beloved one.

Draco had listened in while the Golden Trio fought for the first time in a long time, and heard when Potter said, “But I trust Draco, guys. Give it a rest.”

It was most certainly not the use of his first name that made Draco cherish the memory, because that would just be a sappy thing to do. And if there is one thing that a Malfoy is not - and this one Draco can’t even deny - it is sappy.

He shoves on a black, short-sleeved turtleneck and ripped black jeans, before shoving on a pair of Muggle trainers. The mirror in the bathroom, charmed and full of compliments, whistles as Draco styles his hair back into the quiff he’s been liking it in these days.

No, not just because Potter said it suited him. Circe, he’s not a teenage girl, fanning himself over the Chosen Wonder - or whatever other ridiculous titles are readily available for Potter - who has given him the barest hints of smiles recently.

“You ready? It’s almost - oh. Oh.” Potter stands in the doorway of the bathroom, blinking owlishly as he assesses Draco.

Draco smirks, flexing a pose on purpose. “Well, what do you think, Potty? Exquisite?”

The stunned expression on Potter’s face fades away into wry amusement, and the boy shakes his head, dislodging a stray curl. “Yeah, sure, Malfoy. You look absolutely dashing.”

He really can’t say the same for the Gryffindor - Potter’s chosen to wear one of his AC/DC t-shirts, and a worn down pair of jeans. Draco looks down at the scruffy trainers Potter’s chosen to wear, and purses his lips.

“Potter, are you sure you want to still dress up like a homeless orphan or..?” He doesn’t mean it to be rude, not really. It’s just the way things come out of his mouth, honestly. Caustic and salacious.

Thankfully, Potter seems to understand, because he just huffs out a breath of laughter. Draco smirks, relieved, and strides out of the bathroom, patting Potter’s head as he passes him.

Today’s going to be good - he can feel it.


	12. To Dare or Not To Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco play a game out in Muggle London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if Londoner's Dare is a thing. If not - it is now.

Harry honest-to-Merlin doesn’t know what he and Malfoy have gotten themselves into, this time. He’s fairly sure the plan had been to traipse around London for a bit, enjoying the Muggle sights, maybe wait for evening to grab a drink.

He’d only been joking about the getting sloshed part, yesterday.

But, now it’s quarter past five, and he and Malfoy are already well on their way to getting shit-faced drunk.

Harry had given Malfoy a handful of spare change he had in his pocket, and the man had returned to their chosen spot by the River Thames with a bottle of tequila and two bottles of Marshmallow Vodka. Harry thinks the vodka tastes of stale, cloying sweets stuck together, but Malfoy makes fun of him for not liking it, telling him that he has “no class, Potter, honestly. You have the culture of a swine.”

It’s not like Harry cares, or anything, what Malfoy has to say about his drinking habits and likes. He sips his tequila in tranquil, inhaling both the golden, warm, stinging scent of alcohol and the fresh breeze that passes over the river.

He sneaks a glance at Malfoy, who’s preoccupied with a stray tourist pamphlet he’d found on his escapade to find an off-licence. If Harry squints, he can just about make out something about the alluring sights of Italy.

He’s never really realised before just how good-looking Draco Malfoy is - and it’s okay to say that, he’d checked with Ron, who’s another very straight man. He’d thought so as well, so Harry feels less weird about staring at his ex-arch-nemesis.

Malfoy is good-looking as all hell, with ice-blonde hair and silver eyes, his long Patrician nose and that sharp mouth. It’s insane, if you think about it for long enough, that someone bred to be such a dick can look to gorgeous.

Merlin, perhaps he’s had more to drink that he’d thought. ‘Patrician nose,’ really? It takes gargantuan effort and self-restraint to stomp down the urge to facepalm himself while Malfoy is sitting right beside him.

“Have you ever been to Muggle London, before this?” Harry asks, surprised to find that he genuinely wants to know.

It’s as though all throughout his life, Malfoy’s always been this imposing figure, dark and mysterious. Now that Harry actually has the chance to crack open Malfoy’s secrets and paint him as a human being, he suddenly finds himself aching to know more about the boy who had chosen the wrong path in life.

Malfoy jerks, startled, on the edge of the bridge. He lurches and very-nearly topples over and into the river. Harry shoots a hand out to steady him, muttering apologies and many ‘sorry’s’.

“Fuck, Potter, if you’re trying to off me, at least warn me, first.” Malfoy scowls, but by this point, Harry’s well-versed in Malfoy expressions - Christ, when did that happen? - enough to recognise the smile hidden in the quirk of Malfoy’s mouth.

It’s an exhilarated, wild sort of smile. The smile only the drink - and the promise of a good time - can give you. Malfoy tastes his alcohol like it’s an experience like he really gets off on this type of stuff.

Harry shakes his head. He needs to really not think about Malfoy getting off - and especially since it reminds him about that time he’d caught Malfoy wanking. He closes his eyes and wills his breathing to return to normal standards.

“I’ve been here loads of times, Potter, it’s nothing special. Now, Ibiza is a place I want to go.”

Harry hates the way the words roll off Malfoy’s posh tongue so smoothly, despite the prat now being made of at least 70% alcohol.

“Alright, Mr Cultured, I’m assuming you’ve played Londoner’s Dare, then, yeah?” Harry says.

Malfoy pauses, his bottle halfway to his lips. He quirks a perfectly shaped eyebrow, and Harry just grins. Gotcha, he thinks, curling the fingers of his free hand around Malfoy’s pale, bony wrist. He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but once he’s got his hand there, Harry has a hard time taking it away.

Malfoy, who had moved his gaze down to Harry’s dark fingers circling his pale skin, shifts minutely, but Harry doesn’t let go, still. “Would you like to play?” He asks, in all seriousness. He’s a bit lightheaded, but he reckons that has a lot less to do with the drink than it has to do with Draco Malfoy being intoxicating.

“Go on, then,” Malfoy’s eyes spark with the intention of a challenge, and the smirk on his face tells Harry all he needs to know; Malfoy plays to win, but then again, so does Harry. “How hard could this shit be? I’ll probably trounce you, Potter.”

Harry snorts, swinging his legs over and around before he hops down from the bridge’s ledge. He stretches into the dying sunlight, the pale rays glinting off the gild of his glasses. He turns to Malfoy, only to find the other already watching him.

The drink makes Malfoy braver, so the git doesn’t look away, despite the splotchy rose-coloured blush that takes over his cheeks. He raises his bottle to Harry before he turns and swaggers down the street.

“Oi, Malfoy, get back here!” Harry yells, and Malfoy, the git, just laughs delightedly.

Harry spends a good two hours with Malfoy after that. They egg each other on, slowly drifting from the easier dares like dare you to trip up that tourist or dare you to stand on a bench and scream your lungs out to dares that even Harry’s not quite sure if they impose Muggle law, or not.

At one point, he thinks Malfoy’s actually made him steal and clutching the new pair of sunglasses to his chest, Harry doesn’t feel quite as good about this game, anymore.

Harry nudges Malfoy’s side with his elbow, a bit more forcefully than he intended to if Malfoy’s pained gasp has any say in it. Harry may or may not be a bit - a lot drunk.

“Malfoy, mate, just...last dare, yeah? Yeah?” He says. “Yunno, don’t want McGonagall on our arses when we get back, and all - wouldn’t be too good, or something.”

Malfoy’s a cocky drunk, all boastful smiles and large swagger and confident eyes. The sight reminds Harry so much of the old Malfoy, the Slytherin Prince, that, just for a second, he wants to punch Malfoy in the mouth.

He wouldn’t hold himself accountable for it, really. Malfoy would’ve been asking for it, acting all...all mean and horrible and prattish. It’s jarring to meet this side of him, again, to know that - at the end of the day - it is a part of the current Malfoy he knows, the funny and charming and quiet one.

But then again, maybe that’s alright. It would be very boring if Malfoy laid all his cards out on the table in one go, wouldn’t it?

“Come on, Potter, you said it yourself, haven’t got all day. What’s my last dare?” Malfoy waves a strong, pale hand in front of Harry’s face, drawing his attention.

Oh. See, when Harry says things while he's drunk, he’s usually never prepared for the aftermath of his words. Now, he scrambles for something to say, anything, so Malfoy doesn't think him a total cop-out.

“Er - I dare you to strip down naked and race down London.” He blurts out, finally.

For a split second, Harry thinks Malfoy’s going to say no, and he feels a vindictive pleasure bubbling up within him because he’s fucking won, but then Malfoy swerves at the last second, giving a firm nod of his head.

It’s the fucking drink - Harry bets the man can’t even see two feet in front of him he’s so blind off the vodka. But, drink or no drink, Malfoy finds a quiet corner to get changed in. It’s quite warm outside, but only with the proper clothes on, and when Malfoy strips off his shirt, he’s shivering.

Harry tries not to stare because he has Ginny who’s a girl and he doesn’t need to stare because he isn’t...yeah. But in the brief flickers, his eyes decide to disobey him, he catches a glimpse of an endless sea of pale, cool-toned flesh.

And dark, dusty nipples.

Harry swallows, clenching his hands into fists. “You ready, Malfoy?”

Malfoy shrugs, feigning boredom, but Harry can see through his facade. The git’s shoulders are practically all the way up to his ears, locked with tension and nerves. Harry doesn’t know what makes him do it, again, but he reaches out and places a hand on Malfoy’s elbow.

He studiously does not look down.

“Right, then. 3, 2, 1, off you go!”

For a few seconds, Malfoy doesn’t move, stunned by Harry’s swift countdown. But Harry sees the moment the words register in Malfoy’s drink-addled brain, and he’s off like a shot, running like a madman down the streets of London.

He doesn’t even make it a few hundred feet away and Harry’s already laughing, rolling around on the cobbled street, clutching his stomach and wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes.

It feels so good to just laugh freely, happily, without worries or cares. Harry lifts his head, in time to see Malfoy try and sidestep two offices intent on taking him in, most likely to press charges of public indecency.

Oh, shit.

\--

Harry’s never wanted to see the inside of a holding cell in all of his 27 years of life. (Well, he knows what he means, anyway.) He honestly doesn’t know why he’s in here, other than the fact that he’d seen Malfoy about to get caught by the police, and had reacted in the only way he knows how - like a Gryffindor.

He’s sprinted down the lane, swerving past wandering families and people, generally making a disrupt of everything around him until he’d reached them, with Malfoy’s head already hanging down in shame.

Harry had come clean, telling the police it had been his fault, he’d dared Malfoy to do it, and that Malfoy should, on no account, have charges pressed against him. They hadn’t listened, of course, instead choosing to drag Harry into it just because he was there and telling them he was part of it.

Now, he sits beside a fully-clothed Draco Malfoy in the cell, both of their wands invisible and stuck in Harry’s back pocket of his jeans. No one had bothered to search them for any items yet, and Harry didn’t know if that part was true, or if Muggle telly was a liar, again.

“You’re always such a fucking Gryff, did you know that, Potter?” Malfoy sighs, but he doesn’t sound angry.

He just sounds resigned, perhaps a little bit uninterested. Harry can’t blame him, it’s Saturday, and almost well into the nighttime, so whatever the Muggles think they’re doing, he and Malfoy will just wake up on the same Thursday, far away from anything Muggle for at least a little while.

Harry shrugs. “I said sorry, like, a billion times.”

“I don’t care about the naked part, you dolt. That was quite fun, actually. I care about you putting your neck on the line for me because it’s the right thing to do. Who even says that?”

The heat off Malfoy’s body soaks Harry’s left side with a beautiful warmth, and he looks sideways, trailing his gaze down Malfoy’s face again. The git still doesn’t look angry, if only a bit put out. Like he’s seen so much during his small time in the time loop, and he doesn’t think he’s seen someone as infuriating as Harry Potter.

Harry feels a flash of pride at that, actually.

“Sit properly, Potter.” Malfoy gestures with a graceful hand. “Your neck position gives me a headache.”

A faint rush of dulled pleasure erupts in Harry’s bely, like it always does when Malfoy bosses him about. It’s a disgusting thing - it pulls at his self-esteem, at his ego...at his thoughts about Ginny and marriage and girls, girls, girls. The feeling turns them all into faint background noise.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he grumbles, but, all the same, he does sit a bit straighter.

He can practically feel Malfoy’s self-satisfied smirk, and the git has the audacity to trail two fingers up Harry’s shoulder farthest away from him, before he withdraws his hand. And Harry’s body has the audacity to react, fissioning brightly.

Harry leans his head back against the cold wall, closing his eyes. Oh, Merlin’s saggy balls, he’s in so much trouble and it scares him.


End file.
